Torch Songs for Two
by Veresna Ussep
Summary: Cuddy wakes up in House's bed. Trouble is, she can't remember how she got there. Rated "M" for language and sexual situations
1. In The Wee Small Hours of the Morning

CHAPTER ONE: IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS OF THE MORNING

Disclaimer: House, the show, and House, the character, are the creations of the brilliant David Shore and belong to him et al. I am merely writing this for entertainment purposes, with no monetary gain to myself, and absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:**

First, thanks to 'lablanche' for providing me, as always, with her support, praise, criticism and invaluable advice while acting as my editor for this story. It was hard to venture back into the world of fanfiction after being away from it for several years, and I am thrilled and honored that she agreed to undertake this journey with me. Any and all errors remaining in this work of fiction are strictly my own fault.

This House fanfiction was conceived and written during the barren era of the writers' strike, in between the airing of 'Don't Ever Change' and 'No More Mr. Nice Guy'. Although most, if not all, fanfiction ventures into 'Alternative Universe' territory at some point, the events portrayed in this story are designed to be consistent with the canon of the 'House' universe as it was at this point, near the end of the fourth season. I state unequivocally that the story was conceived before I had heard of any 'spoilers' for the two-part cliffhanger. So, any similarities in plot are completely coincidental, or else prove that there are only so many storylines available before you get duplication.

Anyone wishing to take issue with any of the diagnoses, prognoses, or any other noseses portrayed herein is advised to remember that this is a work of fiction, and that the actual writers of House often venture into an area where the reality of a genuine disease is stretched to the breaking point for the purpose of providing entertainment. I speak as a person with over with twenty-five years of experience working as a Medical Technologist. What's a Medical Technologist you say? Those are the people who actually staff the laboratories to perform the testing of the samples and who, along with the invaluable phlebotomists, are the ones usually drawing the blood. If Princeton-Plainsboro magically survives without these people (along with a wide variety of other medical professionals), I hope I can be forgiven for doing my own stretching of the absolute medical truth in this story.

As to why I'm writing this story: David Shore created a fascinating character, but without Hugh Laurie's brilliant portrayal, I believe he would never have succeeded in creating a series built around a lead character whose behavior is so magnificently appalling but at the same time never less than absolutely mesmerizing. To cap it off, whenever Mr. Laurie and Ms. Edelstein appear together, the chemistry between their characters makes the air crackle with excitement. In response to the question of what would happen should their characters ever end up in bed together, executive producer Katie Jacobs said: "That's kinda interesting."

I completely agree. Here's my version of how it all happens.

Chapter One: In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

As Dean of Medicine at a large teaching hospital, it was not unusual for Dr. Lisa Cuddy to be awakened in the middle of the night. Amazingly, the interruptions to her slumber were not always the work of her brilliant, impetuous and infuriating head of Diagnostic Medicine deciding that 2 o'clock in the morning was the ideal time to be ringing her phone, knocking at her door, or tapping on her bedroom window. There were several evenings when some actually quite sane and sensible person with a legitimate concern or question had found it necessary to communicate a problem to her immediately, regardless of the time.

Though, of course, no one besides Dr. Gregory House took such a sadistic delight in ruining her night's sleep. Anyone else would begin the conversation by apologizing for the intrusion. Dr. House was likely to inquire as to what she was wearing (presuming he was not there to leer at her in person).

On the night our story begins, Cuddy was having one of her bizarre recurring dreams wherein she found herself suddenly transported back in time to medical school. She was literally running all over the University of Michigan campus, desperately trying to locate a lecture hall where a particularly important final exam was about to commence. Although she wasn't quite sure what class it was for, she was absolutely certain that if she failed the exam, she would flunk out of the medical program.

But she would arrive at the appointed room only to find a notice posted on the door announcing that the site for the exam had changed. Inevitably, the latest testing venue would be on the other side of the campus, so she would set off on a run in a new direction. As if that weren't bad enough, it would periodically occur to her that there was some very important chapter that she had somehow neglected to study. So she would stop for a moment and paw frantically through her textbook, trying to cram some data into her brain even though the words swimming in front of her eyes seemed maddeningly meaningless to her. Then she would set off on a run again, wobbling slightly on ridiculously high heels and pushing through crowds of laughing, oblivious students as she continued on her journey towards her increasingly elusive objective.

So it was actually with some relief that she found herself suddenly jolted awake and sitting half-way up in bed. She opened her eyes for just a moment, assuring herself that it was still dark, and that she had not been awakened by either the ringing of her cell phone, or the buzzing of her alarm, and then shut them again. She felt cold, physically drained and emotionally exhausted. Her body was shaking and her breath continued to come in ragged gasps as the last remnants of her nightmare slowly faded away.

"You okay?"

Startled, her eyelids flew open again and her heart, which had just started to return to a normal rhythm, began racing wildly again. There was a warm hand squeezing her right shoulder and the voice had been unmistakably male.

"What?" she sputtered, sitting up completely and moving her head in the direction of the speaker.

But the man had already removed his hand and was turning over in the bed, facing away from her.

"You were having one of your nightmares," he said, bunching the pillow under his head and settling back down to sleep. "Hey, stop hogging the blankets," he murmured, reaching back to tug at the bed clothes.

The voice sounded tired, irritated and frighteningly familiar.

Dumbfounded, she allowed him to pull the quilt over to his side of the bed while keeping the sheet wrapped around herself.

Automatically, she turned her head to the left to check the time on her clock and found herself blinking in surprise. Although there was a nightstand to her left, it was covered in stacks of books and compact disks rather than her familiar lamp and clock.

She swallowed and tightened the sheet around her body, finding herself shivering again from a combination of cold and fear as she attempted to make sense of the situation.

She was not in her own home.

She was naked.

And she was in bed with-

"House?" Her voice sounded strangely thin and shaky.

She heard him sigh.

"You were having a nightmare," he repeated, sounding increasingly grumpy. "Go back to sleep," he commanded.

Now, it has to be understood that Lisa Cuddy, as she had once actually mentioned to House, liked sex. Liked it a lot, actually. And there were times when her libido had driven her to some spectacularly hasty and, in retrospect, awful choices in lovers. But if she had occasionally awoken harboring immediate regrets regarding what she done while in the throes of passion, she had never before found herself in someone else's bed without the slightest idea of how she had gotten there.

It was, to say the least, unnerving. And, since the man in question was House, her immediate relief that she at least recognized her bed companion was more than counterbalanced by the knowledge that she had inexplicably ventured into extremely hazardous territory.

She heard him sigh again.

"You're not going back to sleep, are you?" This verdict was delivered in that resigned, deprecatory tone he reserved for anyone, be it a patient, colleague or employer, who was too stupid or stubborn to follow his eminently sane advice.

She opened her mouth, but not a single word came out of her throat as her mind continued struggling to comprehend the situation. She could only stare, dumbly, as he turned onto his back and yawned, his tall, thin body arching languidly as he stretched.

"_Move, now!" _

For some reason, her body seemed stubbornly unwilling to comply with this quite direct and sensible command being issued by her mind. Instead, she remained frozen in position, watching as he closed his eyes and grimaced, his hand moving down to massage his right thigh through the layers of blankets covering it.

"Well, since we're both awake, I guess we'll just have to think of something to do," he said, suddenly opening his eyes as a decidedly rapacious grin replaced the scowl.

"Uh," she managed to croak, her eyes widening in terror as she realized his intentions.

"Oh, it's okay, honey" he assured her, a teasing yet undeniably lusty tone creeping into his voice as he rolled towards her. He waggled his eyebrows roguishly. "I'm _up_ anyway."


	2. Where or When

Chapter Two: Chapter Two: Where or When

Dr. Gregory House was well-versed upon the subject of "Fight or Flight", or the theory that species have evolved so that there is an automatic response elicited from the body when presented with a perceived threat or extremely stressful situation. He could have given an in depth and profound lecture upon the subject, detailing the exact biophysical mechanisms involved in the rapid release of cortisol, adrenaline and other hormones into the bloodstream and their subsequent effects upon the autonomic nervous system. Not that he would have ever willingly given such a talk, of course. He would always snark that the only doctors who were gifted at lecturing were obviously also supremely unfit to actually practice medicine. He much preferred to dispense wisdom in the form of sardonic asides and cryptic comments rather than a structured discourse. But, if he were ever forced to give such a lecture, he might have ended his remarks with the advice that if one wished to observe such an event firsthand, it was probably best not to be lying naked next to the person who was experiencing the phenomenon.

For her part, Lisa Cuddy would always steadfastly maintain that she at no time meant to do physical harm to Dr. House; she was only trying to move as quickly as possible to what she perceived to be a much safer distance. She would admit, however, that there was a general flailing of her arms and legs and that, in her efforts to kick the sheet free from the bottom of the bed (so that she could continue to wrap it securely around herself), she had inadvertently managed to plant more than one substantial blow to his unprotected flesh.

"Jesus, Cuddy!" he yelped, springing to a sitting position.

She heard him take in several loud, gasping breaths as she tied the sheet over her chest. Hopping out of the bed, she bent down to study the floor. Although there were a few objects scattered about, she could see nothing that remotely resembled a piece of her own clothing.

"What the hell is wrong?" he demanded, in between a few more groans.

"This isn't funny, House," she yelled. "Not at all." She brushed the hair away from her face and continued to look around the room for something more conventional to wear.

"Does it sound like I'm laughing?" he countered.

"I mean it, House," she said, straightening up and planting her hands on her hips.

There was a street lamp shining in through the window beside the bed and she could just barely make out the outline of his torso in the dark.

She took another breath and pointed a finger in his shadowy direction.

"I am going to get dressed and head to the nearest ER, and have my blood and urine tested. And if they find the slightest trace of Rohypnol, or Ketamine, or, or-"

She hesitated, suddenly at a loss.

"GHB?" he offered.

"Thank you, yes." she said. "You are going to lose your job, and your license, and, and-"

"And go to jail, go directly to jail, without collecting two hundred dollars?" he asked sarcastically, obviously unmoved by her threats.

"This isn't a game of Monopoly, House."

"No, it's not even 'The Game of Life, by Milton Bradley'," he agreed. "But, I'm starting to think we might be trapped in an episode of 'The Twilight Zone'."

She heard the bedsprings squeak as he moved to lean his back against the headboard.

"Cuddy," he said, his voice very soft and even, "are you seriously accusing me of raping you?"

She opened her mouth to respond and then hesitated.

"No," she finally said, sighing. "I know from experience that you are capable of a lot of perfectly horrible, awful things," she muttered. "Including," she continued, "slipping someone a drug without their knowledge and breaking the law. But rape," she admitted, shaking her head wearily, "that's not exactly your style."

"Wasn't that the same thing you wrote on my last performance evaluation? Remind me not to ask you to speak at my next parole hearing."

"But," she said, another idea springing into her mind, "you are genetically incapable of resisting the chance to take advantage of a situation." She began to pace back and forth, her mind trying to fit together the pieces of a plausible scenario. "So, we were out _somewhere_," she said, gesturing with her hands, "and I had a little too much to drink," she theorized, shrugging her shoulders, "and instead of being a gentleman and taking me home, you brought me here and…" Her voice trailed off.

"Tore your clothes off, threw you onto the bed and ravished you?" he suggested, helpfully. "Ooh, I like that. You know, Cuddy, this 'date rape' fantasy is a lot hotter than that pirate/wench fantasy we played out last night. Of course, in that one I barely had time to get my hands on your golden doubloons before you were buckling up against my swash."

She stopped pacing and turned to face him, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Well," he said, "since I _obviously_ would have to get you _very_ drunk in order to entice you into my bed, you must have one hell of a hangover, right?"

"Oh," she said, her anger dissolving in a split second into uncertainty.

"Come on, Cuddy, if you were sloshed enough to have a blackout, you gotta at least have a headache?" he suggested.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Need a bucket to hurl in?" he asked, solicitously.

"No!" she repeated, her voice rising in exasperation.

"Hmm, let's see, differential for the after effects of a large amount of alcohol: achy limbs, cotton-mouth, sore eyes-feel free to stop me whenever we hit upon a symptom that actually matches."

"Oh, shut up, House,"she said, running a hand through her hair. "I don't feel drunk, and I don't feel high, and I don't feel hungover. I feel…fine," she sputtered.

"Yeah."

She shivered again "But, I'm not fine, am I?"

"Admitting you need help is your first step on the road to recovery," he replied, in a saccharine tone of voice.

"Bullshit," she murmured.

"Oh, sure when the shoe's on the other foot," he jeered.

She sighed. "How long of a journey do think it's going to be?" she asked.

"Don't know yet," he admitted.

He heard her utter something that was halfway between a groan and a laugh.

"Do you always have to be so damned honest, House?"

"Come, sit," he said, patting the bed cover. "I promise there'll be no more ravishing until you request it," he added. "On me word as a pirate, aargh!"

She lowered herself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

"On the bright side," he began, switching on a lamp that stood on the table beside his side of the bed, "I would say that physically you are as strong as an ox."

She blinked and shielded her eyes from the sudden light.

"The proof of that being how much my leg is still hurting from that kick you planted on it about five minutes ago."

"Oh, come off it, House, I did not hit you that hard," she said, her eyes still closed.

"Yeah, right, 'Iron-Leg Cuddy'. What were you doing in your nightmare, kicking field goals?"

"Why, were your footballs impacted?" she asked, managing to open her eyes wide enough to squint at him.

"No, just my _thigh_," he snarled, moving the blankets to the side.

"Well, if you expect me to kiss your booboo," she began, and then abruptly stopped. "Oh, my god, House, what happened?"

Her eyes were all the way open now and she was staring down in horror at the deep, wide depression and hardened scar tissue covering nearly half of his upper right thigh.

"You don't remember this?"

"No," she murmured, unable to draw her eyes away from his crippled leg. "But, _I _didn't do that," she said, pointing at the damaged area.

"Wanna bet?" he retorted. He threw the covers back over his leg and shook his head. "Oh, Houston, we definitely have a problem."

He paused and pursed his lips, staring up at the ceiling. After a moment, she heard him start to softly hum the theme song from 'The Twilight Zone'.

_Doo__-doo-doo-doo, __doo__-doo-doo-doo_

"What-" she began, but the question died on her lips as she found herself staring into his face.

The House she remembered was clean-shaven, with brown, wavy hair that arranged itself in wiry curls above his forehead. But the man now sitting beside her sported hair liberally sprinkled with gray, cut and combed in a severely short, haphazard fashion that did not quite disguise the fact that it was beginning to thin considerably on the top of his head. The face was swathed in dark stubble that ran over his chin, cheeks and upper lip, but stopped just short of being long enough to be called a beard or moustache. She had to admit that it oddly complemented his thin and narrow features. But somehow the whiskers did not quite hide the fact that there were deep lines etched into his face that she could not recall seeing before. There were new wrinkles around his eyes as well, although they remained the startlingly deep and clear blue of her memory.

The other thing that was instantly recognizable was the expression upon his face. It was the look of absolute concentration that she had seen countless times before even though she could not, right at this moment, have given any details as to the last time she had seen it. House had just been handed a puzzle, and, as frightened and confused as she was, she took comfort in the knowledge that he would give the conundrum his full and undivided attention until he came up with a solution.

"Okay," he said, suddenly breaking out of his reverie and reaching behind him to plump a pillow behind his back. "Let's see exactly what you do remember."

He reached over to the bedside table and retrieved a small, orange pill bottle. Expertly opening it with one hand, he raised the bottle to his mouth and tilted it until one white, oval pill fell onto his tongue. Cuddy watched silently as he swallowed the pill dry and replaced the bottle on the stand.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Viagra," he replied instantly. "I'm under strict orders to take one every hour as long as you are in my bedroom." He waggled his eyebrows again. "You insatiable wench!"

"Viagra is a little blue pill," she informed him.

"Well, your pharmacopeia knowledge is still basically intact," he observed. "On the other hand, you only remembered two out of the three 'date rape drugs', so I think I have to mark you down to a B+ on that subject."

He paused for a moment to rub his eyes. "So, let's move on to something a little more basic. What's your name?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" she protested.

"BZZZZ, wrong!"

"All right, Lisa Ruth Cuddy," she answered, "And before you ask, yours is Gregory House."

"Yes," he nodded. "Although," he shrugged, "I would have accepted one of your pet nicknames for me. Lately you've been calling me 'Jackhammer'," he confided.

"Jackrabbit is probably more like it," she sniffed.

"Unbelievable, folks! Yes, she may have lost the rest of her mind, but the 'insult House' neurons of her disease-riddled brain are still firing on all cylinders."

"Pavlovian response after years of conditioning," she replied.

"No doubt. Do you remember where we met?" he asked.

"University of Michigan"

"Very good," he said. He leaned back and crossed his arms. "So, Lisa Ruth Cuddy," he continued in a strangely cheerful tone, "want to tell the studio audience what you do for a living?"

She sighed. "I'm a doctor."

He nodded and then quirked an eyebrow upward. "You are allowed to add a few embellishments to your answers you know. A few extra details you just might be able to remember, like-"

"I'm an Endocrinologist."

"And?" he prodded.

"And I am the Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

"You sure of that?"

"Yes," she said, huffily. "I'm also sure I was the first woman and second-youngest person ever to achieve that position."

"Whoo, folks, sounds like she's going for extra credit here! Now, for the big question." He uncrossed his arms and leaned towards her. "Well, tell me, Dean Cuddy, how many years have you been at your current post?"

"I-"

She hesitated and for a moment he could see her eyes whipping around the room.

"I have been Dean of Medicine since June of 2000," she answered, finally.

"Ooh, and she was doing so well," he said, shaking his head. "You see folks," he said, lifting his hand to his mouth to whisper conspiratorially to the unseen audience, "she thought I wouldn't notice that she avoided telling me the number of years, because in order to do that-"

He dropped his hand and frowned at her. "She'd have to remember what year it is now."

After a few seconds, Cuddy dropped her eyes to stare down at the blanket.

"Any idea?" he prompted, softly.

Keeping her head down, she slowly traced a pattern with the tip of her right index finger before finally raising her face back to his and shaking her head.

"Nope," she admitted.

"It's your fault, you know," he said. He gestured with his hand. "I used to have this room plastered in 'Naked Babe Calendars', but _you_ made me take them down."

"So," she said, blinking her eyes rapidly as she felt them fill up with tears. "How worried should I be?"

"Worrying doesn't accomplish anything," he said.

"So, you're not worried?" she challenged.

"Are you kidding?" he said, "I'm envious. Do you know what I would give to wake up some night and be unable to remember Vogler and Tritter?"

She looked at him blankly.

"Not important," he assured her with a wave of his hand. "Just a big, hulking brute and a jackass. Kind of like Mike Myers and Eddie Murphy in 'Shrek', except in this case the black dude was the ogre."

"Just remember this," he said, leaning forward. "You _owe_ me," he informed her gravely.

She raised her eyebrows and regarded him dubiously.

"Anyway," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "I think we need to move on to the next stage of the differential." He rubbed his palms together. "I'm thinking the breast exam should be next, don't you?"

Her scowl deepened and she crossed her arms firmly over her chest.

His lower lip went out in an exaggerated pout. "Oh, come on," he whined, "You promised I could be the doctor the next time we played."

"Any more cute comments and you're going to find yourself on the receiving end of a proctology exam," she warned, raising her eyebrows.

"Boy, your memory really is bad," he taunted. "We did that two nights ago. Well, if you're going to be pissy about it, I guess we'll just have to the stupid, boring neurological exam instead."

He held up his hands with both forefingers pointing upward. With a sigh, Cuddy reached out to wrap her fists around the extended digits.

"Oh, come on now," he chided, "I know from experience that you can hold on much tighter than that."

"Well, you know that you have to hold on really tight to keep a grip on _small _things," she jeered, as she frowned and tightened her grip.

"Ouch!" he murmured, "and ouch," he added, nodding at her hands.

She released her hold.

"Good strength and symmetry," he said. "Pizza time," he announced, raising his eyebrows.

She nodded and raised her hands in front of her, as if holding a pizza box.

"Eyes closed," he ordered.

"I'm not going to cheat," she protested.

"Not consciously, maybe. But if you're looking at your hands and one of them starts to droop, you are going to compensate for it automatically."

"Oh, all right." She closed her eyes and waited. After what seemed a very long time, she opened one eye to peer at him.

"No pronator drift," he assured her.

"I can stop?" she asked.

"Sure," he said.

"What took you so long?" she asked, opening her other eye and lowering her arms.

He shrugged. "I was just wondering how long I could get you to keep your eyes closed around me." He nodded at his wrist watch. "The answer is thirty seconds, in case you're interested."

"Is that relevant?"

"No, it's just something _I've_ always wondered. It might be useful information for the future."

He ignored her scowl and reached out to wrap the fingers of his right hand around her wrist. Finding her pulse, he raised his left arm and once again consulted his watch.

"Do you always wear your watch to bed?" she asked.

"No, but I fully intend to in the future. In case you ever make that 'Jackrabbit' crack again, I want some data to defend myself."

He released her wrist.

"Hmm, your pulse is a little rapid," he said, "But, then again, you are in close proximity to my naked bod."

"Well, that explains the nausea," she murmured.

He shot her a quick, inquisitive glance.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No nausea or dizziness."

"Can't you ever be serious?" he admonished her sternly.

Turning to the nightstand, he leaned down and pulled out a drawer. After a few moments of rummaging around, he turned back to her with a penlight and reflex hammer in his hand.

"How long is this going to go on?" she protested.

"Oh, if I only had a dime for every time you've said that while we're in bed together," he replied, flicking the penlight on and off to check it.

"You'd have ten cents. Honestly, House!"

"Just a few more things," he promised. "I want to make sure it's safe for me to drive you to the ER or if we need to immobilize you and call in the ambulance."

"Do you think it's really that serious?"

He sighed and tossed the light and hammer onto the bed cover. "Cuddy, it's been eight years since my leg injury."

"It's serious," she agreed.

"But, most probably temporary," he said.

Picking up the reflex hammer, he started by tapping on her right bicep. Cuddy found herself torn between trying to watch and grade her own reactions and studying House's face to see if it looked as though he was finding anything irregular.

He said nothing, his face remaining impassive as he continued testing her reflexes until he came to her left knee. Although she could have sworn it was an absolutely normal response, he frowned and repeated the test. She bit down on her lip and struggled to remain calm as he bent down to study the area more carefully. She remained still as he brought his right hand up and ran his fingers over her kneecap. A few seconds later his hand began to move upward, and just as his fingers slipped underneath the sheet that was still covering her thigh, her own hand shot out and slapped him away.

"You pig!"

"Well, I see that reflex is still working," he said, waving his supposedly injured fingertips in the air. "And after all the time and energy I spent to override it"

"You said this was probably temporary," she stated.

"Yeah," he said, tossing the hammer aside.

She flinched involuntarily as he suddenly raised his hands to her head, but managed to hold still as he began to run his fingers over her skull.

"Probably is not a word you like to use," she observed.

"Neither is temporary," he said, pulling a face. "Reminds me of Tipperary, and, god, you know how I hate _that_ word. No bumps," he announced, lowering his hands and picking up the penlight.

"So-"

"So shut up and tell me if you can read those numbers," he said, gesturing at the clock which stood on the nightstand.

"Yes," she said, and then leaned over to study the clock more carefully.

It was an old and battered digital model, the kind where the numbers were printed on little pieces of plastic that flipped over on a rolodex-like cylinder rather than illuminated on LED.

"Oh, my god, House, that is ancient. Don't you ever throw anything out?"

"Hey!" he said, sounding insulted. "If I didn't let old and creaky things into my bedroom would you be here?"

She stuck out her tongue and sat up again as he picked up the penlight.

"Keep your eyes focused over there," he said. "I assume no double or blurred vision?"

"Nope."

"Pupils responsive and equal," he murmured. "Now, follow the light!" he commanded.

She tried but did not quite manage to keep a straight face as he accompanied the movements of the penlight with whirring and whooshing sounds, like the landing of an alien spaceship.

"Any verdict so far?" she asked, as he clicked off the light.

"No sign of loss of either motor or neural function," he said. "But, strangely enough, you _do_ seem to have gained a sense of humor."

"Personality changes can occur after a stroke," she said, quietly.

He paused and rubbed his thumb across his forehead. "I don't think it's a stroke."

"But you're not sure?"

He frowned and bent towards the drawer again. "Damn, I knew I had a MRI and PET scanner in here somewhere_," _he grumbled, rattling around the contents of the drawer.

"So, ER time?"

He straightened and nodded his head in agreement. "ER time."

"I, uh, better go clean up."

"Bathroom's that way," he said, pointing to the door.

"Okay." She stood up and took a step towards the door before spinning back to look at him, a strangely guilty look across her face. "Stacy?"

He immediately lowered his eyes and laughed shortly. "Gone, briefly back, and gone. For a couple of years now."

She looked relieved for a moment and then another apparently disturbing idea crossed her mind.

"House, we're…not…"

He looked up at her again and raised his eyebrows.

"…married, are we?" she asked.

"That brain-damaged you aren't," he assured her.

She threw him a smile and turned back towards the doorway.

"Do me a favor?" he called out, as she took a few steps forward. "Drop the toga?"

"Why?" she asked, suspiciously, moving to tighten the sheet around her.

"Well," he said, rolling his eyes, "It's a little hard to assess your posture and gait with all that fabric in the way."

She hesitated for another moment and then turned away from him and began untying the knot she had made. The sheet tumbled to the floor and she walked swiftly and surely to the bathroom doorway.

"How was that?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder.

He was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her with his head tilted to the side. After a moment, he gave a start and shook his head.

"Sorry," he said, "I was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of that giant ass swinging through the air. You better do it again," he urged.

"House!"

"No problems observed," he assured her.

"Good," she said, and turned to step into the bathroom.

"Don't lock it!" he called out, as the door closed behind her. "In case you don't remember, I'm not exactly physically capable of breaking down a door in case you decide to pass out on me," he warned.

He heard a muffled 'Okay' from behind the closed door.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and brought his hands up to massage his temples for a few moments. Then he reached over to pick up the Vicodin bottle with his left hand and his cell phone with the other. He dispensed another pill onto his tongue, returned the bottle to the table, and swallowed as he punched in a number.

Foreman answered on the third ring.

"What the hell do you want, House?"

"Mornin', Sunshine, how are you?"

"Ticked off. Please tell me what is so damn important at three o'clock on Sunday morning that couldn't wait until Monday, or at least daybreak?"

"New case."

He heard a snort. "Since when do you go looking for cases on the weekend? Or at all?"

"This one came looking for me. Heard I had the biggest, stiffest cane in New Jersey and-".

"What is it, House?"

"Well, I kind of think it's one of those brain-thingy things and since you are one of them brain-thingy doctors…"

"Okay, I'll be in the office in about an hour."

"No, you'll meet me in the ER in a half-hour."

"The ER has a neurologist on call, you know?"

"Yeah, but this is kind of a VIP situation," House explained.

Foreman snorted again. "One of Cuddy's precious donors?"

"No," said House, his voice suddenly sounding tight and tired. "It _is _Cuddy."

There was a short silence.

"What symptoms?" Foreman asked. House could hear the sound of bed springs squeaking and fabric rustling in the background.

"Paroxysmal memory loss."

"We talking minutes or days?"

House sighed. "Well, she's definitely blacked out on the past eight hours, but she's also pretty hazy going back years at the moment."

"Any signs of stroke?"

"Nope, everything looks okay on the limited neuro exam I just gave her."

"So, you thinking TGA?"

"Makes the most sense so far, but I need confirmation from the scans. And a complete exam by a NEU-RO-LO-GIST," he snarled, starting to get annoyed and feeling slightly anxious about the fact that Cuddy had not yet re-emerged from the bathroom.

"Well, the most frequently documented trigger factors for TGA are extreme physical exertion, exposure to cold water and …sexual intercourse."

"Yeah, I've read the textbooks too, you know."

There was another pause.

"So, is there something you want to tell me, House?"

"Yes," he hissed. "We were running a three-legged marathon at midnight and then we decided to cool off by taking a skinny dip in Carnegie Lake. Would you just get to the damn ER?"

House snapped the phone off and sat listening to the sound of water swishing in the bathroom sink. He wondered briefly if he should mention to Cuddy that, despite the fact she was at this moment so earnestly washing the traces of his semen from between her legs, a lot of people were soon going to figure out that they had been sleeping together.

With a muffled groan, he eased his legs over the side of the bed and bent down to retrieve his cane from where it was leaning against the wall. Being careful to keep the weight off of his right leg, he gingerly rose to his feet. He tried a step and then grimaced and bent at the waist, moving his hand down to massage the recalcitrant limb. After about a minute, he straightened and tried again, this time managing a few more steps.

He stopped for a moment and turned to look back at the disheveled bed, and then glanced down at his feet where the discarded sheet lay in a heap in front of him. He took his cane and, balancing on his left foot, pushed it out of his way.

The tap of his cane echoed in the silence as he hobbled over to retrieve Cuddy's clothes from where they lay mingled with his own in the hallway.


	3. Say It Isn't So

Chapter 3: Say It Isn't So

**Chapter 3: Say It Isn't So**

Cuddy had to admit that House had an interesting assortment of towels in his bathroom. There was a wide variety of colors and textures, and though none were monogrammed, a significant number of them bore the names of various hotel chains. Unfortunately, it appeared that he had specialized in stealing rather small towels-the easier for stuffing into his duffel bag, she supposed. While they might be more than ample enough to wrap around his thin waist, Cuddy was looking for just a bit more coverage. In the end, she had to dig through three stacks of towels before she found one large enough to wrap around herself.

Tucking the edges under to secure it in place, she walked back to the sink and frowned at the woman staring back at her from the mirror. She could honestly say that, unlike House, her face did not appear to be markedly changed or aged. But she also had to admit that she did not look particularly attractive at the moment, especially in the harsh glare of bathroom light bulbs. There were raccoonish rings of smudged mascara around her eyes and her hair, strangely shorter than she remembered, was tangled and knotted in places. Sighing, she looked around the bathroom for a brush. Not finding one on the vanity counter, she leaned over to pull open the door of the medicine cabinet.

Her eyes widened as she stared at the cupboard's contents. The bottom was nearly bare, with only an oral thermometer on one end of the shelf and a rectal thermometer on the other. But the rest of the cabinet shelves were stuffed to the brim.

There was an assortment of razors, small plastic combs, and trial-sized deodorants and tubes of toothpaste that looked suspiciously like those the hospital provided for its inpatients. There were a few bottles of over-the-counter medications, but half a dozen pill vials filled with various amounts of Vicodin. She leaned over to squint at the labels and frowned at the sight of her own name as the prescribing physician on one of them.

She picked up one the combs and regarded it dubiously. She decided that there was no way she would be able to work the close-set teeth through her tangled hair and threw it back upon the shelf.

She closed the cabinet door and shook her head wearily. Why a man who apparently seldom bothered to shave his face or comb his hair would obsessively stockpile these items simply because he could get them for free was not something she wanted to think about at the moment, much less the suspicion that he might have forged a prescription in her name.

She jumped in surprise as two loud thumps sounded at the door behind her. She walked over to open the door, and found House standing in the hallway, a pile of clothes in his left hand.

"You almost ready?" he asked, handing the clothes over to her.

He was dressed in a t-shirt and blue jeans, but she noticed that his feet were still bare. She also saw, to her surprise, that he holding a cane in his right hand. As she reached out to take the clothes, it occurred to her that the thumping noise had been produced by his banging the cane against the door.

"Yeah, I'll be just a few more minutes," she assured him.

She closed the door and hurried back to the sink, setting the clothes down upon the counter. She had already rinsed out the washcloth she had used to wash her arms and legs, and folded it neatly over the towel rack. Picking up a fresh cloth with one hand and a bar of soap in the other, she prepared to wash her face.

The soap was cheap and gritty, and her skin was stinging by the time she managed to scrub all the traces of her makeup from her face. She hung the second washcloth next to the first, and patted her face dry with the edge of the towel she had wrapped around her body. She hesitated for a moment and then, with a shrug, opened the medicine cabinet and picked up one of the deodorant bottles. She unscrewed the cap and applied the sticky liquid to her underarms, her nose wrinkling in distaste at its unpleasantly antiseptic fragrance.

"_Maybe it would be better to smell like sweat,"_ she thought, tossing the bottle back on the shelf.

She closed the door and looked down at the stack of clothes. Although she did not recognize any of the garments per se, she had to admit that they appeared to be items she might typically wear on a day off of work. There was a pair of stone-washed jeans, a clingy, short-sleeved pink sweater and a red thong stacked neatly in a pile on top of a pair of casual leather sandals. Throwing off the towel, she quickly pulled on the garments. Impatiently brushing her hair away from her face, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Leaving the sandals sitting upon the counter, she picked up the towel from the floor and threw it over the side of the bathtub.

"House?" she asked, opening the door and peering through the hallway into the bedroom.

He was sitting on the end of the bed, tying his shoes. He turned to glance over his shoulder at her.

She cleared her throat. "Did I happen to have a bra?" she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

His eyes dropped down to her breasts and she saw his lips curling into a naughty grin as his eyebrows shot upwards.

"Tsk, tsk. Must be awfully cold in that bathroom," he commented. "Hey, do you remember that TV show 'Twin Peaks'?" he asked. "Don't know why that suddenly _popped _into my head," he added.

She leaned against the doorway and sighed, waiting for him to finish.

He tilted his head to the side. "Bet all your employees will be glad to see that the boss is in a perky mood today!"

"Very funny," she replied, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her chest again as she felt her cheeks begin to flush. "Could you please just answer the question?"

"Now that you mention it," he said, pursing his lips thoughtfully and looking up at the ceiling, "I do seem to recall relieving you of that particular article of clothing earlier in the evening. I'll go check under the couch," he told her, rising to feet.

Even though the sight of his damaged thigh was still fresh in her mind, she was shocked to realize the full extent of his disability as he limped out of the room. She was grateful that he had not turned back to look at her, because she knew that he would have hated to have seen the brief look of pity that had involuntarily crossed her face.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, she walked back to the sink and picked up the sandals. Sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, she bent down and fastened them onto her feet.

She had just finishing buckling her right shoe when her gaze suddenly fell upon a small, strangely-shaped object resting on the top of the trash sitting next to the sink. Puzzled, she rose to her feet and walked over to pick it out of the garbage. Blinking her eyes in surprise, she continued to stare at it for several seconds.

She started at the sound of the door hinge creaking behind her. She quickly tossed the item back in the garbage and turned back towards the doorway. After a moment, the crook of House's cane came slowly creeping into view through the narrow opening between the door and the jamb, a lacy red bra dangling from the end.

"I believe this is yours?" inquired a disembodied voice.

"Why?" she asked, walking over and snatching the garment from the end of the cane. "Just how many bras did you find under your couch?" she challenged, peering at him through the crack.

"That's the only one in your size," he assured her, drawing his cane back. "Besides," he added with a smile, "I know you like to match."

His smile broadened as she slammed the door in his face.

She emerged from the bathroom to find him once more sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands cupped over the handle of his cane, and his chin was resting on top of his fingers. He was wearing a shirt and blazer over his t-shirt, and there was a tweed cap upon his head.

Cuddy also noticed that, although the sheet was still lying on the floor, he had pulled the rest of the bed covers up over the mattress.

"Are you finally ready?" he asked, tiredly.

"Not quite yet," she said, reaching over to pick up the purse that he had placed at the end of the bed.

As with the clothes, she did not exactly recognize the bag, and yet she supposed there was something vaguely familiar about the style. The same could have been said for the sleek blue cell phone tucked into one of the purse's side pockets. She flipped it open and stared at it, surprised by both its ultra-thin size and the unfamiliar array of options on the keypad.

"Yeah, let's just turn that off for now," suggested House, reaching over and grabbing it away from her hand.

She opened her mouth to protest as he shut off the device.

"I know you think no one else is capable of running the place," he snapped, tucking the phone into his jacket pocket. "But I don't think you're exactly in 'executive-decision' mode at the moment, do you?"

"I probably need to call someone in administration or on the board," she said, slowly. "To let them know that I'm having a problem."

"I'll take care of that when we get to the hospital," he promised. "_If_ we ever get to the hospital," he added, shaking his head as she continued to search through the purse.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, House," she muttered, unzipping another compartment. "But some of us like to do a bit of grooming before we go out in public, so we don't look like we just fell out of bed. Don't say it!" she warned, glaring over the top of the purse as he parted his lips.

To her surprise, he simply shrugged and closed his mouth.

"Finally," she said, reaching into the purse and fishing out a brush and a small elastic hair band. It took her a few minutes to work out the snarls and then she gathered her dark hair into a ponytail at the back of her head.

She threw the brush back into the purse and then reached in to bring out something wrapped in a plastic baggie.

"Do you mind if I brush my teeth?" she asked.

"Yes!" he said, getting to his feet. "Cuddy, if we don't get to the hospital soon, the diagnosis is going to be Alzheimer's-for both of us."

"Fine," she said, tossing her head as she threw the baggie back into the purse. "I'll put my lipstick on in the car," she muttered, pulling the zipper closed again.

"Oh, thank you for your sacrifice," he said, facetiously, holding out his hand.

She stared at him blankly.

"Car keys," he informed her.

She looked uncertain.

"My car is in the shop."

"Oh."

"And somehow I don't think it would be a good idea to take my bike."

"You have a motorcycle?" she asked in surprise.

"Nope," he said, shaking his head as he grabbed the purse out of her hands and unzipped it. "A bike. It's a real neat Schwinn with chrome, hand brakes and a big saddle seat. Of course some people's saddle seat-

"Are bigger than others," she finished for him as he retrieved a ring of keys from the bottom of the bag.

"Exactly," he said, tossing the purse back to her.

"So" he added, holding the keys up by the tag, "I guess I get to take 'the beemer'out for a spin."

She definitely did not like that look of unmitigated glee upon his face.

"Oh, now, don't look so disappointed. I know you want something powerful throbbing between your legs, but that will just have to wait until you're all well again."

"Are you sure you're okay driving?" she said, purposefully keeping her eyes focused on his face.

"Oh, you mean this?" he asked, using his left hand to point at his right leg and cane. "Absolutely," he assured her. "These days they're letting us cripples do a lot of things that 'normal' people do. Heck, sometimes they even let us go out in public in broad daylight."

She looked horrified.

"Oh, House, I didn't mean-"

"Joke!" he said, holding out his hands in exasperation and shaking his head. "You able-bodied people are just so sensitive," he chided, walking over to the lamp and switching off the light.

She followed close behind him as in the darkened apartment, noticing that he seemed to be moving with a little more fluidity and less hesitation than before. In fact, he was walking rapidly enough that she had barely time to look around the living room as they strode through it. She was only able to see that most of the walls were lined with bookshelves, and that there was a baby grand piano in the corner of the room. He pulled the door open and motioned for her to precede him through the doorway. She stepped out into the hallway and then looked back as he appeared to hesitate.

"Just a minute," he said, disappearing back into the apartment for a moment.

"Here," he said, crossing back over the threshold and tossing a leather jacket over to her. "Even though the twins have appeared to settle down for the night, you still look a little chilly," he informed her.

"Thanks," she said, putting her purse down on the floor so that she could pull on the jacket.

It was ridiculously large on her, of course, but she was instantly grateful for the welcome warmth it provided. She pulled the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and thrust her hands into the jacket pockets as he locked the dead bolt. After a moment she frowned and dug deeper into the right pocket. Pulling out her hand, she stared, aghast, at the orange pill bottle in her hand.

"My god, House, just how much Vicodin are you taking?"

"Too much according to you and Wilson," he said, turning around to face her as he transferred his cane back into his right hand. "Not enough according to my leg," he added, grabbing the bottle out of her hand and transferring it to the pocket of his blazer.

"You still have Wilson?"

"Yeah," he replied, making a face. "I can't get rid of that guy no matter what I do," he complained.

"I know the feeling."

He merely smiled and pointed the way out of the building. They walked in silence as he led her to the car.

"It's a beauty, isn't it?" he said, taking her keys from his pocket and hitting a button to unlock the doors.

"It sure is," she agreed, opening the passenger door and sliding down into the seat. "I just hope it's still in one piece by the time we get to the hospital," she added, under her breath.

House opened the driver's side door and then hesitated. He bent down and peered into the interior.

"Hmm," he said, studying the front seat.

Cuddy couldn't help but smile as realized his predicament. Since her legs were much shorter than his, he was at the moment trying to figure out how to move the seat back to that he could manage to fit his long, lanky body behind the steering wheel.

"Here," she said, suddenly moving forward and pressing a button on the dashboard.

There was a small whirring noise and the seat began to move backward. He waited until it had moved to the farthest position before he backed down into the seat, both legs facing out the car door. With a grimace, he pivoted his body and then gingerly moved his right leg underneath the steering wheel, his right hand underneath the knee to help it move into position.

Cuddy's smile disappeared and she quickly busied herself with buckling her seat belt. It was still hard for her to remember how badly damaged his leg was, and that what would be an effortless movement for her presented a physical challenge for him.

She turned back when she heard the click of the key being placed into the ignition. His cane, she noticed, was lying on top of the dashboard.

"Do you think it's a good sign that I remembered where the button was?" she asked, as he started the car.

He shook his head. "That's reflexive memory, not declarative," he said, sounding slightly distracted as he played with other buttons to adjust the side and rearview mirrors. Leaning over, he frowned at the sound system controls. After a moment, he managed to switch on the radio and continued to punch buttons until he had succeeded in tuning in the local jazz station.

"Ahh!"

Cuddy could not keep from emitting a small, involuntary cry as he suddenly put the car into gear and squealed out of the parking space.

"Suh-weet ride," he drawled, smiling broadly.

"If you're going to drive like a maniac," she began, holding out her hand.

"Yeah, right, you think you can find your way to the hospital?" he challenged.

"No," she admitted, shrugging her shoulders.

Indeed, as they drove through the streets, she would just seem to get her bearings, recognizing a building or a store and then she would find herself lost again, surrounded by unfamiliar landmarks. It didn't help that she remained more than a little anxious regarding House's driving habits, but she forced herself to remain quiet, knowing that if she made any more complaints, it would goad him into speeding faster and driving even more recklessly.

Luckily, even in the large metropolitan area where they lived, early Sunday morning was a relatively quiet night for traffic. There were few cars out on the street, and at most of the intersections the traffic lights were blinking yellow and red. They traveled through quite a few intersections without pausing before he was finally forced to stop at a solid red light.

Screwing up her courage, she took in a deep breath, and turned down the volume of the radio. She knew if was time to ask the question that had been nagging her since her discovery in the bathroom.

"So…I'm trying…really seriously…to get pregnant," she finally managed to say.

He kept his face turned toward the windshield, and in the bright glow of the street lamps and traffic lights, she could clearly see his reaction. His eyes widened in surprise for just a moment before he frowned and began to absentmindedly run his finger over the bridge of his nose.

She saw the change in color on his face as the light turned back to green.

"Well, you've either had an amazingly swift recovery," he said, his hand dropping down to the wheel as he moved his foot to the accelerator, "or somebody was snooping around the bathroom," he concluded, glancing over at her.

"I wasn't snooping," she protested. "The ovulation test kit was sitting right on top of the garbage and since it was bright blue, it was hard to miss."

He nodded, but, to her astonishment, said nothing else, returning his attention to the front of the car.

They traveled in silence for several more minutes.

"Am I really that pathetic, House?" she asked, finally.

A moment later she was again crying out in fear as he suddenly steered the car towards the side of the road. Slamming on the brakes, he put the car into park and turned to face her again.

"You know what?" he said, "You're absolutely right. What's the point of taking you to the ER? Why don't I just find a nice bridge for you to jump off of? I mean," he continued, shaking his head, "if you're pathetic enough to sleep with me-"

He closed his eyes and shuddered.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" she protested. She dropped her head tiredly into her hands for a moment.

"Look, House," she said softly, finally raising her head again. "There has always been this sexual attraction between us; I don't deny that for a moment."

"No, actually you've denied that for a lot of moments," he assured her, moving his hand to switch off the ignition. "That whole bad memory thing again," he added, helpfully.

"But, what's happening right now, between us-"

She paused again and struggled to find the words. "It's just…weird."

He frowned and glanced away from her, his hand moving to push his hat up higher upon his forehead.

"House," she said, gesturing helplessly with her hands. "There was not a single item of mine in your apartment."

"As if you could tell right now?" he challenged, looking back at her.

"Yeah, my memory's toast at the moment, but I am absolutely sure that there was not a single toiletry of mine in that bathroom. Unless you count the ovulation kit," she said, rolling her eyes, "I'm sure I ended up paying for that."

"Are you implying I'm cheap?" he said, feigning a shocked tone of voice.

Ignoring him, she continued: "I obviously don't keep a change of clothes at your place if you had to go around-"

She waved her hand dismissively.

"-searching under furniture to find me something to wear," she said. "I don't even keep a damned toothbrush at your place."

"That's why you're upset? All right, fine. I'll let you keep a damned toothbrush at my place," he said. He shrugged. "Actually, I think there's a space open right next to the rectal thermometer. Which, by the way, you also bought."

"House," she said, her voice continuing to rise, "You're deliberately avoiding the point. I could handle this if we were pursuing a serious relationship or-"

She threw her hands up in frustration.

"-or even if we were having a hot, strictly sexual affair. But what I can't handle is the thought that our relationship apparently consists of my showing up at your door a couple of nights a month so that you can-"

She paused and crossed her arms in front of her.

"-fertilize my eggs," she finished tiredly.

"Oh, I love it when you talk dirty. I prefer the term spawn, myself."

She found herself laughing in spite of herself.

"Look, Cuddy," he said, slowly, shifting uncomfortably in the car seat. "You expected that, by this stage in your life, you'd already be married to some nice Jewish doctor, or lawyer or dentist."

She brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead and turned to look at him.

"In fact, you probably thought that by now you'd be living in a ridiculously expensive house in the suburbs with a couple of kids," he continued. "Little Isaac would be getting ready for his bar mitzvah and you'd be looking forward to the day when little Miriam would be purchasing her first push-up-bra and pair of stilettos," he mused. "Just like her Mommy."

"I knew I couldn't count on you to be serious," she moaned, leaning her elbow on the top of the car seat and resting her head against her hand.

"All-too-familiar a story you know," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Young, fresh-faced Jewish American Princess graduates second in her class in medical school and embarks on an exciting career in medicine." He sighed. "Then suddenly, without warning, she's sucked into the evil, swirling black vortex of hospital administration."

By now she was managing a small smile.

"The next thing she knows," he said, holding out his hands, "She's this dried-up old hag who can't even get a date on the 'I'm Really Really Desperate And Won't Even Make You Wear A Condom dot com' website," he concluded.

"So, where exactly is that bridge you were talking about, House?" she asked. "Because I think I'm ready to push you off of it," she informed him.

"Good, you must be feeling better," he said, smiling and bending down to turn on the ignition.

"Cuddy," he said, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the way was clear before pulling back onto the road, "you want a baby," he stated. "Your biological clock is ticking and you're tired of waiting for 'Mr. Right' to come along. And you're emotionally stable and financially secure enough to raise a child on your own."

She nodded.

"You also happen to know a guy who has spent years gazing longingly at your butt."

"So, I figured I could count on him to lend a 'hand'? So to speak," she added, rolling her eyes again.

"No, actually, you meant that kind of literally the first time you proposed the idea," he informed her. "But, turns out this guy isn't exactly the altruistic type who'd be willing to go the paper cup, copy of _Hustler_ and turkey baster route."

"I bet not," she replied.

"Although," he added, with a grin, "funnily enough, another one of your pet names for me just happens to be 'Turkey Baster'."

She lifted her eyebrows.

"Because-" he said. He held his hands out in front of him, leaving a space nearly a foot long in between his palms and shrugged.

"Because all it takes is one squeeze and you spurt out all over the place?"

"Does the phrase 'fragile male ego' mean nothing to you?" he whimpered.

"I guarantee," he said, glancing into the rear view mirror before changing lanes, "what's happening between us is not weird, it's a very satisfying arrangement for both of us."

"Quid pro quo?"

"Exactly. And it's a real shame that your memory is wiped at the moment, because if you could only remember how nicely my quo fits into your quid."

Her deliciously throaty laughter filled the air.

"No, I mean it," he insisted. "Look at all the advantages. You get an endless supply of all the 'fresh, never-frozen' spermatozoa that you could possibly want-"

"Right," she said, shaking her head.

"-and I get a little action between my sheets."

"Come off it, House, I'm sure you've never had trouble getting that," she demurred.

"Yeah, but it's sure easier on my Visa balance to get it for free once in a while," he replied.

She bit her lip and turned to look at him. She wondered if it was merely one of his typical jokes, or if there was more than a kernel of truth to the remark.

"Anyway," he said, giving the wheel a sharp turn. "Better get your lipstick on. It's almost showtime."

She shivered and pulled his jacket closer around her shoulders as he turned into the driveway leading to the emergency entrance of the hospital.

.


	4. More Than You Know

Chapter 4: More Than You Know

**Chapter 4: More Than You Know**

"Would you please slow down?" Cuddy hissed, as House wove through the parked vehicles.

"Hey, I'm just trying to get you to the ER in a timely fashion," he protested. "I hear there's an 'Early Bird' discount if you check in before 4 a.m."

Decreasing his speed only slightly, he steered the car around the end of a row and then slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a car pulling out of a space in front of them. The driver of the other car honked his horn and lowered his window to make a rude gesture in their direction.

"Just ignore it, House," she warned, leaning over to put her hand upon the steering wheel. "And back up a little bit to give him more room."

"He has plenty of room to get out if he turns the other way," he argued.

"_Just do it_," she said, her voice breaking into a screech.

"Geez, you're cranky when you don't get enough sleep," he observed, reluctantly shifting the car into reverse and backing it up a few feet.

The driver of the other car pulled all of the way out of the space, paused to shout a few obscenities in House's direction and then sped off away from them.

"Are you going to let him insult you like that?" House asked.

"Yes," she said. "It's worth it for the parking space," she added, pointing at the now-vacated spot.

"Are you kidding?" he snorted, driving past the spot and swerving around the end of the row. "These days I'm always guaranteed a ring-side seat," he boasted, the car wheels squealing again as he pulled a tight turn into another parking space.

"You can't park here," she told him.

"Why not?" he asked, turning off the engine and pulling the key out of the ignition.

She pointed at the sign posted directly in front of them. "It's _handicapped_."

"_I'm_ handicapped," he shrugged, picking up his cane from the dashboard. "Is your memory failing again?"

"Yes, but my car doesn't have the special license plate or tags."

"Oh, don't worry," he said, digging into his jean pockets. "I never leave home without this." He pulled out a card upon which was pictured the silhouette of a wheelchair and hooked it onto the rear-view mirror.

"You look a little pale," he observed, turning to look at her in the light flooding into the car from the Emergency Room entryway.

"I wonder why," she murmured sarcastically. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with the white-knuckle ride I just took."

She reached into her purse and took out the compact and tube of lipstick. She quickly applied the lipstick to her mouth and then held the compact out at arm's length, tilting it as she tried to get a good look at her entire face.

"I wish I had brought some blush or mascara," she said, shaking her head.

"Don't worry, I'll pay extra and have them airbrush the wrinkles out of your MRI images," he assured her.

"How many times a day do people threaten to ram that cane down your throat?" she asked, throwing the makeup back into her purse.

"Counting co-workers?" he asked, screwing up his face. "About three," he decided, "Actually, another orifice is the much more popular choice."

Grunting slightly, he opened the door and swung his legs over the side, once more having to support the right knee from underneath to move it. Using the cane, he rose to his feet and slammed his door shut before limping over to the passenger side.

Cuddy was sitting very still, her fingers tightly clutching the purse in her lap as she stared, unseeing, out the windshield at the Emergency Room doors.

House tapped his fingers against the glass, startling her.

"You look _fine_," he said, opening the door. "C'mon let's go."

"House," she said quietly, looking up at him. "Couldn't we go somewhere else?"

He tilted his head and considered her request. "Well, Wal-Mart's open twenty-four hours," he said. "Lowest prices in town, but they were sold out of imaging equipment the last time I was there."

"Another hospital?" she clarified.

He turned to his left and leaned against the car, looking over at the entrance. "I know it looks like a dump from the outside, and I hear the Dean of Medicine is a nutcase at the moment. But, on the other hand, I hear they give out free lollipops."

"It's the best hospital in the state," she declared proudly.

"Oh, sure," he agreed, mockingly, looking down at her.

"But I could find _adequate_ treatment at some other ER," she said, pausing to chew nervously on her lip.

"But you'd have to pay it all out-of-pocket for going outside the PPO," he pointed out.

"Fine with me," she shrugged, moving to shove him out of the way so she could pull the door closed again. "Let's go."

"Cuddy," he said, refusing to budge. "You know you are going to get the best-and quickest-treatment if you go here. And besides," he said, suddenly turning around and bending down to sit on the edge of the car seat. "We might run into some problems if we go elsewhere."

"Like what?" she asked, suspiciously.

He placed both hands on his cane, propping his weight against it.

"Unfortunately," he admitted, "I've been thrown out of several of the neighboring Emergency Rooms."

"What?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "A malicious, obviously unsubstantiated rumor about 'drug-seeking behavior'."

She sighed and dropped her head into her hands.

"I'm going to regret getting my memory back, aren't I?"

"Maybe when you start remembering things you really want to forget, I can whack you on the head with my cane," he suggested, rising to his feet. "To see if I can induce selective amnesia."

"One of us needs a good whacking," she said, opening her eyes and getting out of the car.

"Oh, you little minx," he said, winking at her as he slammed the door and used the remote to lock the car. "I keep telling you that we're just going to have to wait until you're all better."

They walked the few steps to the Emergency Room and entered through the automatic doors. As in the car trip, she felt the out-of-kilter sensation of being in a place that managed to be both comfortably familiar and weirdly strange at the same time. The layout of the department seemed little changed, but the colors of the walls, floors and chairs were not what she remembered at all.

"Where the hell is Foreman?" wondered House.

"Foreman?" she asked, turning to him.

"Neurologist, member of my team?" prompted House. "About this tall?" he added, raising his hand.

An image of a young, attractive blond man suddenly appeared in her mind's eye. "Yes," she said, excitedly. "House," she said, turning to grab his arm, "I think I'm starting to remember."

"Praise Jesus!" he murmured, sarcastically, moving his arm from her grasp. "Stay here while I look for him."

"What do I do if someone comes over and starts talking to me?" she asked, nervously. She had already noticed several of the employees turning their heads to look at them, obviously wondering what she and House were doing in the ER at this time of the morning.

"Pretend you recognize them and say you're here for a consult," he suggested, moving away from her and turning down one of the hallways.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

She turned to see a middle-aged woman in scrubs bearing down upon her.

"Hi," she said, trying not to feel like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

"This really isn't fair, Dr. Cuddy," the woman said, looking perturbed as she stopped and planted her hands on her hips.

"What isn't fair…" Cuddy's eyes dropped down to the employee name tag pinned to the woman's pocket and was relieved to find her name was printed in large letters. "Dorothy?"

"I heard rumors that you might be springing surprise inspections on us-" she began.

"Oh, no. No. Not at all," Cuddy said, shaking her head. "I'm…here for a consult…with Dr. House…and Dr. Foreman," she assured her, hoping she didn't sound nearly as stupid as she thought she did.

"The car accident with those teenagers?"

_Oh, god, should she say yes or no?_

"No," she said, raising a hand to brush the hair away from her forehead. "Another case entirely," she said, waving her hand.

"All right," said Dorothy, looking slightly placated. "I hope you understand why I was concerned."

"Of course I do," said Cuddy, nodding enthusiastically. "You're a great employee and I appreciate all your hard work," she added.

The woman beamed. "Why, thank you, Dr. Cuddy."

"Well," she said, shrugging her shoulders and spreading out her hands. "I better go find them."

"Oh, I saw Dr. Foreman just a few minutes ago. If I see him again, I'll send him over."

"Gee, thanks, Dorothy."

_Now, please, please, please just go away._

"No problem, Dr. Cuddy."

She sighed, closed her eyes and raised her fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples. Part of her wanted to go running down the hallway after House. But another part was afraid she might get lost and not find her way back to the ER.

She opened her eyes and smiled and nodded to a few more employees as they passed by her. It took a few bemused smiles from the passersby before she realized that she was still wearing House's leather jacket over her sweater. She hastily shrugged it off and folded it over her arms.

The minutes seemed to crawl by.

"Dr. Cuddy!"

She turned and saw a handsome young black man in a white lab coat approaching her. His hair was shaved close to his scalp and he wore a neatly trimmed beard and moustache.

"How are you doing?" he asked, smiling at her in a very friendly manner.

_Ok, this time I'm ready._

"Oh, I'm just fine," she assured him, breezily. "I'm just here for a consult with Dr. House and Dr. Foreman, Dr.-"

She glanced down at his badge and her smile immediately disappeared.

She jumped as a hand unexpectedly materialized over her shoulder, moving to point out the name on the ID card.

"FORE-MAN," intoned House's voice. "I see you've had a relapse," he murmured, moving to stand at her side. "Were you tempted by Satan?" he added, in a broad southern accent.

"I _thought_ I knew who Dr. Foreman was," she explained weakly. "Tall, blond guy?" she asked.

"No, no, no," said House, sighing. "Now, pay attention: Dr. Foreman is the dude with the 'tude, and Dr. Chase is the ass-kissing Aussie."

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," she said, turning back to Foreman.

"Don't apologize," he said, reaching out to reassuringly squeeze her shoulder. "Believe me, I understand completely."

"Yeah, I usually don't remember his name either," said House. "Hey, they all look alike to me," he added in a loud whisper.

Cuddy turned to glare at him. "Shut _up_, House!" she hissed.

He shrugged and reached into the pocket of his blazer, pulling out the bottle of Vicodin. Cuddy reached out and snatched it away from him, shoving it down into one of her own pockets.

"And stop gobbling those down like candy."

"Well, there's a definite memory impairment, but fortunately her personality appears to be in unchanged," Foreman said, smiling in amusement as he continued to study them.

"Fortunate for who?" grumbled House.

"Anyway, there's some bad news," said Foreman, crossing his arms. "ER's been fairly quiet tonight, but a couple of hours ago we got in a carload of drunken teenagers who were involved in a rollover. They're keeping the imaging department pretty busy right now, so we're going to have to wait our turn to get in there."

House clucked his tongue. "Oh, come on, this woman is obviously in desperate need of urgent medical care," he said, pointing at Cuddy. "Besides," he added, "She's the _Dean of Medicine_. Can't the kids with the crushed craniums wait while we figure out a way to fit her incredibly large ass into the MRI?"

"Very funny, House," said Cuddy, looking even more annoyed. "I, of all people, am not going to pull rank here. I'll be happy to wait my turn," she assured Dr. Foreman.

"You said there was bad news," said House, frowning. "Does that mean you have some good news as well?"

"Actually, yes," said Foreman, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands on his hips. "Turns out that Patel called off sick tonight and Cameron is covering for him in ER."

House looked puzzled. "And that's good news because?"

"Because she's managed to arrange a pretty private place for us to do the exam. She's also pushed through the paperwork so that Dr. Cuddy doesn't have to go through the whole admission process. She just has to sign a few forms that Cameron will bring in with her. She'll be with us just as soon as she finishes up with her current patient."

"Dr. Foreman, I am shocked!" House said, indignantly. "This woman just clearly stated that she wants absolutely no special treatment because of her position. She wants to wait her turn like everyone else."

"Oh, look!" he continued, pointing through the glass partition to the Emergency Room waiting area. "There's even an empty chair for her to sit in."

Cuddy frowned and looked in the direction of his finger.

"See?" he asked, "That seat right there between the toddler with diarrhea running down his leg and the puking, urine-stained drunk."

To her distress Cuddy discovered that, for once, House was not exaggerating. She groaned slightly and took a moment to mull over the situation.

"Dr. Foreman," she said, turning towards him. "Is there anyone here in the ER who is currently hemorrhaging, coding or seizing?"

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"Okay," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I'll jump to the head of the line just this once."

"Smart move," said House, nodding his approval.

"So, House, I see you've finally managed to corrupt her."

For a few seconds, Cuddy tried to tell herself that she was being paranoid, and that Dr. Foreman was only making a joke about her sudden willingness to bend the rules. But it took only one look at the smug way he was looking at House to convince her that the double entendre was completely intentional.

It was clear that House thought so too. He stared at Foreman for a few seconds in seeming disbelief and then a dangerous gleam appeared in his eyes as his upper lip slowly curled back, his mouth broadening into a smile that was anything but friendly.

The trio stood in an uneasy silence for several seconds, staring at each other until their attention was finally drawn to the sound of heels clicking down the hallway, moving in their direction.

"Here comes Dr. Cameron," said Cuddy. She was so anxious to distract their attention from the currently uncomfortable atmosphere that it took a few moments for her to realize that she had managed to identify her.

"You recognize her?" asked Foreman, sounding slightly suspicious.

"Yeah, I do," replied Cuddy, the surprise evident in her voice.

House studied the pretty young woman's figure as she approached them.

"Either that or she's learned to read barcodes," he commented, pointing at Cameron's chest.

Cameron looked down to where he was pointing. The badge she wore clipped to her labcoat had indeed flipped over, the side with her picture and name facing against her clothes and the white side embossed with a large black barcode facing outward.

"Oops," said Cameron, quickly turning the name tag over so that it was facing the right way.

"Go figure," said House, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe if you bleached your hair 'Hooker Honey Blonde', she'd have recognized you too," he suggested to Foreman.

"She does not look like a hooker, House," said Cuddy, angrily. "Your hair is lovely," she said to Cameron.

"Thanks."

Cuddy took another look at the other woman's badge and sighed. "But, since you have blonde hair in the picture, I'm guessing it's not all that new?"

Cameron smiled and shook her head. "Over half a year now."

"Well," said House, twirling his cane like a baton. "This is certainly a fascinating subject. I tell you what, since you gals obviously want to catch up with each other, why don't you just go on ahead and grab the table for us?" he said, pointing down the hallway. "We'll give you a couple of minutes alone to have some 'girl talk' about hair and clothes before we join you for the main course."

Cuddy and Cameron both turned to scowl at him.

"Foreman and I will stay here at the bar for a while, and do some guy stuff," he said. "You know, drink a couple boilermakers, throw some darts, arm wrestle…"

"Sure," said Cameron shaking her head. "No one's using Room C tonight," she explained to Cuddy. "We'll head on down there and you can sign some forms while I get your vitals. Don't be too long," she called, looking back over her shoulder as she led the way.

Cuddy followed for a few steps and then turned back to look at the men. "And don't kill each other," she admonished.

"Oh, we'll play nice," promised House, flashing another evil grin at Foreman.

House waited until they had disappeared around the corner and gestured for Foreman to follow him. He walked over to an alcove that held telephones, a drinking fountain and a row of chairs. He bent down and took a long drink out of the fountain as Foreman leaned against the wall with his arms folded, waiting for him to finish.

"So, House," he said, "I haven't seen any sign of Taub, Kutner or Thirteen."

"Why would you?" asked House, straightening up and wiping his mouth. "I didn't call them."

"Why not?"

"Because they're not needed," he said, shaking his head. "You're here as a neurologist to help me complete an exam, not as part of the diagnostics team to solve a medical puzzle. Pretty straightforward case, don't you think?"

"Since when do you, of all people, hear hoof beats and immediately assume it's a horse and not a zebra?"

"When it actually _is_ a horse, of course, or course," he replied widening his eyes. "The complete lack of black and white stripes is a dead giveaway," he added in a confidential whisper.

"Right," said Foreman, sounding unconvinced. "And you're sure you didn't miss any stripes because you did a very thorough examination?"

"Yes," said House, turning away and beginning to walk down the hallway.

"Since you and Cuddy just happened to be together in the middle of the night when this happened?"

"You know," said House, turning around and snapping his fingers. "There's that odd tone in your voice again, almost like you're implying something. Got something on your mind, Dr. Foreman?" he asked, leaning on his cane.

"You got something to tell me, Dr. House? Or, are you going to act like most people who bring someone in and then lie to us about something that might actually have some medical significance to the patient's condition?"

"You're absolutely right," said House, nodding his head. "Well, let me figure out the most delicate way to put this." He pushed his cap up as he thoughtfully scratched his head. "I'm pretty sure we've got a horse here because-"

He paused and took a step towards Foreman, leaning down so that their faces were only inches apart.

"I rode that little filly pretty long and hard last night, and put her away wet," he hissed, staring directly into Foreman's eyes.

"Situation clear to you now?" he asked, pulling back.

"Absolutely," shrugged Foreman.

They walked halfway down the hallway before Foreman spoke again.

"You know, you make an awfully cute couple," he observed.

"And you know," said House, stopping and thrusting out his cane in front of the other man's body. "That I can make your life a living hell."

Foreman snorted out loud. "You do that anyway, House," he protested. "At least now, I have something to make you squirm a little bit in return."

"Yeah, but I'd be very careful about disseminating that particular piece of information," said House, frowning. "Remember that 'My Friend Flicka' here is the only administrator on the eastern half of the United States who was willing to hire you after you stormed out of here and screwed up at Mercy. You really think it's a good idea to piss her off too?"

"But on the other hand," said Foreman, walking around House's cane and continuing down the hall. "She's going to feel a certain amount of gratitude to me for helping to cure her."

"You don't cure TGA," House pointed out, "It resolves on its own."

"If it is TGA."

"It _is_," House insisted.

"And if it isn't? Foreman asked, stopping and turning back to look at him.

"Well," replied House, tilting his head to consider the question. "Let's just hope "My Little Pony" doesn't have a broken leg. Then we'll have to shoot her!"

By this time they were standing outside a pair of swinging double doors with glass windows at the top. House peered through one of the windows and saw that Cameron was pulling the privacy screen around the only bed that was occupied in the long, ward-like room.

"So," said Foreman, standing behind him. "Is this going to be one of those cases where you've already settled on a diagnosis and ignore any test results that don't support your hypothesis?"

"Absolutely not," said House, turning back to face him. "It's going to be one of those cases where you stop wasting time by arguing with me, do the tests I tell you to do and prove that I'm right."

Using his elbow to push open the door, he strode into the room.

"_Happy trails to you_," he warbled, pushing the curtains aside.

Cuddy was sitting on the end of the bed and Cameron was putting a blood pressure cuff around her arm. They stared blankly as House grinned broadly at both of them.

"You're comparing me to Dale Evans for some reason?" asked Cuddy, uncertainly, squinting her eyes.

"Close, but no cigar," House said, reaching over to pick her chart up from the bed.

"Ask Foreman, I hear he's anxious to talk to you about it," he said, quickly flipping through the few pieces of paper contained within the slim folder. "Something about _trigger_ factors," he said, tossing the file onto a nearby cart.

Cuddy's eyes flicked over to Foreman, who only shook his head and bent down to take a seat on a stool next to the cart. He picked up the chart and began reading it.

"You can put down 80 over 60 as the BP," murmured Cameron, removing the stethoscope from her ears and releasing the pressure from the cuff.

Foreman nodded and took a pen out of his pocket to note the numbers down on the chart.

"What's wrong with this picture?" murmured House, stepping back and tilting his head to the side.

"I know," said Cameron, smiling. "It's very difficult to get used to the idea of a fellow physician as a patient," she said, patting Cuddy on the shoulder.

"No," said House, shaking his head. "I mean, what's up with this?" he asked, stepping forward and feeling the sleeve of Cuddy's hospital gown. "Are you sure this is the only style it comes in?" he asked, dropping his hand. "She'd really prefer something a little more low-cut, maybe with slits up the sides?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes and turned to look at Cameron, who was tying a tourniquet around her left arm and preparing to draw blood.

"Why are you using Betadine?" asked House, leaning over and pointing at the orange oval that Cameron had just painted upon Cuddy's arm.

"Because I'm drawing a blood culture," replied Cameron, her tone implying that the answer was obvious as she inserted the needle.

"Yeah," snorted House, "Temperature of 98.6, normal pulse and respiration, complete lack of chills," he noted. "My first guess would be septicemia too!"

"An infection could cause clots, which could cause strokes," she replied, her eyes focused on her task as she switched tubes.

"But she didn't have a stroke," insisted House.

"Well, after we get the blood tests back, we should be able to confirm that," murmured Cameron.

Cuddy remained still, turning only her head back and forth as they debated.

"No wonder this hospital is so hard up for money that we had to start charging for cable," he fumed, "with all this unnecessary testing being performed."

Cameron looked up at Cuddy. "Remind me to tell you about the time he fried the MRI magnet trying to use it on a guy with bullet fragments in his head."

"House!" said Cuddy, turning to him in outrage.

"The guy was already dead," he said. "Tattletale!" he added, glaring at Cameron.

"Yeah," she murmured, reaching up to release the tourniquet. "Hold this," she said to Cuddy, pressing a piece of cotton gauze against her arm as she removed the needle.

"So, what did you plan on ordering?" he asked, stepping over to study the tubes she had drawn.

"CBC, CMP, INR, PTT, D-Dimer and blood cultures," she replied, placing a piece of tape over the gauze to hold it in place. "Pretty standard stuff."

"Except for the blood culture," sniffed House. "You drew plenty of extra too," he noted.

"For whatever weird, esoteric tests you ask me to run later," she said, grinning up at him.

"My turn now," asked Foreman, moving the stool closer to the end of the bed.

"Sure," said House, stepping back and sitting down on the side of the bed.

"Dr. Cuddy," he began, throwing her a friendly smile. "Please know that I don't mean to be at all condescending-"

"Yeah, right," interjected House.

Cuddy threw him an annoyed glance and then returned her attention to Foreman.

"But your memory is a little impaired at the moment and since your specialty is not neurology, I want to make sure that you know what we think we are dealing with here, and why."

"Oh, don't be so delicate, Foreman," House urged. "The woman has been a hospital administrator for nearly a decade. We all know that whatever medical knowledge she possessed was sucked out of her brain years ago, along with her soul."

This time, both Foreman and Cuddy ignored him completely.

"When a patient presents with amnesia, we first determine what information appears to have been forgotten. You obviously know who you are, you're capable of carrying on a conversation, there is no apparent change in personality, but you have seemingly lost your memory of recent and some not-so-recent events."

"But you and Dr. House don't think I've had a stroke," she said.

"No," he said shaking his head, "Although_ I_ am not going to rule that out until we get the labwork and imaging studies back," he said, glancing over her shoulder at House. "You do not appear to have any problem with speech or mobility, and you're showing no sign of paralysis or weakness in your limbs," he continued. "Your memory since the attack seems to be fine. For example," he said, leaning towards her, "if I asked you how you got to the Emergency Room?"

"Dr House drove me here in my car," she replied, swiftly. "Since his own car was in the shop."

Foreman blinked and turned to look at House. "Your car was working fine when you left here Friday afternoon," he said, suspiciously.

"Yeah," House agreed, nodding his head.

Cuddy looked puzzled for a moment, and then she groaned and clucked her tongue.

"You lied to me," she hissed, turning to stare at House.

"Hey," he shrugged, without a trace of guilt, "would you have let me drive your precious BMW otherwise?"

"Anyway," said Foreman, "it would appear much more likely that you are suffering from TGA, or Transient Global Amnesia."

"Which sounds like a fancy way to say I'm suffering from a temporary but extensive loss of memory," she said, smiling.

"Exactly," Foreman replied, nodding his head.

"If it's not a stroke, what's going on in my brain to cause this?" she asked.

"If it is TGA, the MRI and PET should show that you have areas of hypoperfusion in the mesial temporal structure and/or the thalamus, and that they are probably already beginning to resolve on their own."

"So, I have had a temporary disruption of blood flow to my brain which has affected my memory centers, but it hasn't progressed to an actual infarction and tissue death."

Foreman nodded again.

"But, what would have caused this temporary disruption?" she asked.

Foreman shrugged. "A number of seemingly benign actions have been proven to cause a significant congestion of venous blood flow, leading to temporarily impaired cranial circulation. Some cases of TGA are believed to have been triggered by something as simple as the patient performing a Valsalva maneuver."

"Sneezing?" asked Cuddy, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"Technically, it's purposefully keeping your mouth and nose shut while trying to forcibly exhale, but, yeah, some patients have caused it by trying to suppress a really large sneeze," he said, raising his fingers to pinch his nose and miming the action.

"You know what else can cause it?" House said, rising to his feet.

Cameron, Cuddy and Foreman all turned to look at him.

"Humping!" he said, energetically pumping his pelvis into the air a few times. "Your turn," he said, pointing at Cameron. "This is better than charades!" he enthused.

It was immensely satisfying to House that, even after all these years, he could manage to provoke that, 'Ew, I don't believe you just did that!" look on Cameron's face. For his part, Foreman was sitting back on the stool, arms folded over his chest, regarding House with one of his patented one-eyebrow-raised stares. The daggers being thrown from Cuddy's icy blue eyes would have reduced a lesser man to a quivering mass of jelly.

House smiled broadly and stepped over to throw his arm around Cuddy's shoulder. "We were having a sneezing contest," he quickly assured them, before leaning back and giving Cameron and Foreman an exaggerated wink. "She was cheating," he added, as Cuddy shrugged away from him.

"How do we proceed from here?" asked Cuddy, returning her attention to Foreman.

"Well, I'll be performing a full neurological exam to make sure we aren't missing any abnormalities, and we make sure the blood tests and scans are all consistent with our tentative diagnosis. Then you basically just sit back and wait for your memory to return on your own."

"How soon will that be?"

"Should be twenty-four hours tops, and maybe as little as three or four," he assured her.

"But, I'll probably want to keep you overnight anyway," Cameron said, walking over to her other side and beginning to put the tourniquet around her right arm.

"Because she's always way more cautious than she needs to be," said House. "Which is why you are drawing more blood?" he asked.

"Just getting a second blood culture," she replied, leaning over to gather her supplies.

House reached over and jerked the knot loose, causing the end of the latex strip to snap loudly against Cuddy's arm.

"Ouch!" she said, rubbing her reddened skin.

"She didn't need the first one," House insisted, tossing the tourniquet over to Cameron.

"And you know what House?" said Cameron, catching it in her fingers as she raised herself to her full height and planted her hands on her hips, "It's not your call."

He narrowed his eyes and stared down at her.

"She's in the ER and I am her attending physician at the moment," she said, her nostrils flaring slightly. "Foreman is here as a consulting neurologist and _yo_u," she said, pointing a finger at his chest, "are just the guy that brought the patient in."

They glared at each other for a few seconds and then House stepped back and feigned wiping a tear away from his eye. "Ah, my little girl is all growed up and ordering tests on her own," he said, walking back to the side of the bed. "Fine," he said, sitting down again, "draw your stupid blood culture."

"I will," Cameron assured him, tying the tourniquet around Cuddy's arm again.

"I'll just sit here and be quiet."

"That'll be the day," murmured Cameron, rolling her eyes.

"No, I mean it," he said, lying back on the pillows and lifting his feet up on the mattress. "I'm not going to say a word," he promised, pulling his cap over his eyes and crossing his long legs.

The three other doctors stared at him suspiciously.

"Especially," he said, lifting his head so that he could squint at Cameron, "when you ask 'Anna Anderson' here if she can tell you anything about her current medical history."

Cameron's hand hovered over Cuddy's arm, an orange-colored swab gripped in her fingers. She looked at House for a moment and then turned to meet Cuddy's gaze.

"Your chart here is pretty slim," she admitted, shrugging her shoulders. "All we have is your pre-employment physical, your latest Hepatitis B titers and your yearly TB tests."

She hesitated for a few seconds more and then reached up to release the tourniquet.

"You win," she said to House, straightening up and tossing the iodine swab into the garbage.

He smiled and pushed the cap back off his forehead. "Don't do the talk if you can't do the walk," he advised, rising back to a sitting position. "Ready to write?" he asked.

By this time Cameron had settled herself into a chair and had picked up the chart. Taking a pen from her pocket, she nodded her head.

"The patient is a healthy, fairly buxom and exceptionally well-assed female-," he began.

Cuddy groaned and closed her eyes.

"-who has, in the past two years, been consulting with doctors Irwin and Keel at the Trenton Fertility Clinic. She has also obviously not chosen to have copies of her treatment there sent to her chart here at the hospital."

"Approximately two years ago, the patient began investigating the possibility of becoming pregnant by utilizing 'In Vitro Fertilization'. The initial testing revealed that, to her doctors' surprise, the patient was not only in possession of female reproductive organs, but that they appeared to be in reasonable working order."

Opening her eyes, Cuddy sighed and crossed her arms. She noted that Dr. Foreman and Dr. Cameron were doing their best to keep their expressions noncommittal.

"After a self-medicated course of 'Red Clover', the patient embarked on a series of injectable gonadotropins and used really stupid criteria to select an anonymous sperm donor before undergoing oocyte retrieval and fertilization."

Cuddy turned to glare at House.

"Real loser," he said, shaking his head. "To continue," he said, frowning in concentration, "there were three subsequent attempts to implant a fertilized embryo. The first two were unsuccessful, and the third implanted but was spontaneously aborted after only a few days."

There was a short silence.

"I'm sorry," said Cameron, reaching out to pat Cuddy's knee. "I had no idea," she said, gently.

"Well, obviously, in my current condition, I don't either," said Cuddy, trying to make a joke.

She stared down at her feet, resisting the urge to rub her hand over her stomach. Even though a moment ago she had not known about the loss of the child she had so briefly carried, her womb felt curiously empty.

"After the third attempt had failed-"

Cuddy squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to flinch at the word.

"-there was serious discussion between the patient and her doctors as to whether another course of IVF was advisable. Although no specific structural or hormonal abnormalities had been encountered during the IVF attempts, the patient ultimately decidedly that she preferred not to continue pursuing this expensive and invasive process."

"Instead," he said stretching out his legs and massaging his thigh, "the patient decided to pursue the possibility of becoming pregnant using fertility-enhancing drugs. To that end, she was placed temporarily on oral contraceptives in order to re-establish a normal menstrual cycle. The oral contraceptives were withdrawn, and the subsequent hormone level measurements and continuation of a regular cycle confirmed that the patient was still capable of ovulation. For the past four months, the patient has been taking clomiphene citrate, beginning with a 50 mg dose that has subsequently been increased to 100 mg. The patient is carefully monitoring her ovulation by using a commercially available fertility kit in combination with close observation of her rectal temperature. When it appears she is ovulating, she is spiritedly engaging in coitus with her new, improved sperm donor, Dr. Gregory House."

He waited for Cameron to finish writing before continuing.

"Dr. Cameron will please note in the chart that these acts of copulation were confined to the interior of Dr. House's apartment, and at no time did he and Dr. Cuddy attempt to have carnal knowledge of each other while on hospital property; say in the janitor's closet or a bed in the Sleep Disorder Laboratory."

"What?" said Cuddy, startled, "Who-"

"Not important," House assured her waving his hand. "I'm sure that no one here would _think _of gossiping about anyone's sex life," he said. "At least I wasn't sleeping with a drug rep," he added, smiling at Dr. Foreman.

"Earlier this morning, at approximately 2 a.m., Dr. House was awakened from a post-coital slumber by Dr. Cuddy. Although Dr. House first attributed Dr. Cuddy's agitation to the fact that she had obviously been experiencing a nightmare, after she physically assaulted him he began to suspect that her condition was potentially much more serious. It quickly became clear that she was suffering from more than post-nightmare confusion, and since she had only had two glasses of wine the previous night, it did not appear to be an alcohol-induced blackout. After calming the patient down and performing a brief neurological exam, Dr. House delivered the patient to the Emergency Room at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

"She assaulted you?" asked Foreman, looking at him with interest.

"She kicked me in the thigh," he said. "The _right_ thigh," he added.

"Given the circumstances, you probably got off lightly," commented Cameron. "I wouldn't have aimed for his leg," she said, looking at Cuddy.

"I wasn't aiming at anything," Cuddy protested, "it just kind of happened."

"You're just a fountain of compassion," House said to Cameron. "It really hurt," he whined, rubbing his leg again.

"Yeah," said Cameron, nodding.

"Will you write me a Vicodin script?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "So, is there a chance…"

She had begun to direct the question to Dr. Cuddy, but realized mid-sentence that she would have to ask House instead, and turned back to him.

"-that she is pregnant now?"

"As of noon yesterday, she was ovulating. Since then, she's had over a billion chances to get pregnant," he replied.

"A billion?"

He shrugged. "You know, about four hundred to five hundred million sperm per release times three releases," he explained.

He turned and smiled again at Foreman.

"Sure it's not your Viagra that you need refilled?" asked Foreman, dryly. "Or are you using Cialis?"

"No, it's okay," said House, shaking his head. "Dr. Irwin wrote me a script for that." He was quiet for a moment. "But, the bastard wouldn't write me one for Vicodin, even after I explained that it was medically necessary for some of those positions they recommended."

"House, they do not need a 'blow by blow' description of everything we do," Cuddy protested.

"No blowing," said House, laughing derisively. "That would kind of be defeating the purpose of why you were there. I mean, your anatomy's not _that _screwed up."

"Anyway," interjected Cameron, "I guess we could go ahead and run a quantitative HCG."

"Even that test isn't sensitive enough to detect if she's been pregnant less than twenty four hours," protested House.

"No, but we could get a baseline and test it again in a few days and see if it's at least rising," said Cameron.

House considered this for a moment. "All right," he said, nodding his head. "As long as you delete the blood culture."

"No," said Cameron, reaching over for a lab requisition and beginning to fill it out. "I am going to do it in addition to all the other tests, plus run an LFT panel since you're on Clomid," she told Cuddy.

"Do you think that this problem was at all caused by my medication?" Cuddy asked, directing her question at Foreman.

"No," he said, "To tell you the truth, the typical patient presenting with TGA is usually over fifty, and some studies have indicated that women's attacks are more commonly associated with an emotional trigger like high stress situations rather than a physical cause."

"So, this may not even have been caused by the sex?" she asked.

"Maybe by the stress of having sex with me," House suggested. "They were both too polite to say that, but we know they were thinking it," he whispered to Cuddy.

"Then why did you have to tell them every detail?" sputtered Cuddy.

"Hey, I didn't tell them every detail! For example, I didn't tell them that we started out on the couch and-"

"Don't you dare, House!" exclaimed Cuddy, her face instantly flushing an angry red.

"Cuddy, you're not going to die of embarrassment because of what I've just told them," said House, rising to his feet. "But, as Dr. Foreman pointed out to me in the hallway, I have often had a patient end up on death's doorstep because either he or his family felt something was a little too embarrassing or a detail too unimportant to mention to us. I am absolutely sure that you are suffering from TGA, but if it turns out that you're not," he said, holding out his hands, "then maybe something I've revealed here will turn out to be absolutely vital to the diagnosis."

"Come on, Cuddy," he said, shaking his head. "Would I have handed all this ammunition to Foreman if I thought I could have avoided it?"

She looked at him uncertainly for a moment.

"Okay," he said, lowering his head for a moment, "you don't remember Dr. Foreman well enough to make that call." He raised his eyes back to her face. "But you can believe me when I say that there is no way in hell I wanted anyone in this hospital to know what we were doing, much less why," he said, tiredly.

She studied his face for a moment, and then nodded.

There was a long silence in the room.

"One more thing," said Cameron.

Cuddy turned to look at her.

"We're going to need a urine sample too," she said, holding out a collection cup.

"You think the less-sensitive urine test is better than the quantitative serum one?" said House.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "But, since you are suffering from loss of memory, we do need to run a tox screen on you just to be sure there's nothing else causing it."

House slapped his palm against his head. "A urine drug screen!" he exclaimed. He peered over at Cuddy, "Now, why didn't you think of that?"

Cuddy just made a face at House and put her hand out for the cup as she jumped off the end of the bed.

"I'll go with you," said Cameron.

"You don't have to," Cuddy said, pulling back the privacy curtain. "Surprisingly enough, I seem to remember where the bathrooms are at this place."

"Makes sense to me," House called after her. "After all, you spent all that time writing your name and phone number on all the walls."

"That's how we hooked up," he said, directing this to Foreman and Cameron.

Cameron just shook her head and focused on finishing writing up the lab requisition and labeling the tubes.

House sat down on the edge of the bed again. "Check to see how long it's going to be to get the MRI," he said to Foreman.

He nodded and walked over to the wall phone and dialed a number. After a short conversation, he replaced the receiver back on the hook and turned to House.

"Still about half an hour to forty-five minutes before we can get in," he said, sounding slightly frustrated.

"Good," said House, standing up.

"Good?"

"That gives you plenty of time to do a full neurological exam and to get some of the labwork back before you take her in. Be sure to include all the 'bells and whistles', and let me know if you find anything wrong, even if it's slight," he said. "Since, if it is TGA, we expect to find absolutely nothing."

"Will do."

House walked over to the stack of Cuddy's discarded clothes, which were lying on another cart, and began fishing through the pockets. Finally finding the bottle of Vicodin she had taken away from him, he transferred it to the pocket of his blazer.

"And when you get the imaging results, come wake me up," he said, beginning to walk out of the cubicle.

"Wake you up?" asked Foreman.

House nodded. "I'm going to be in my office sleeping."

Both Cameron and Foreman looked at him with puzzled expressions upon their faces.

"It's the middle of the night people, at least one of us should be sleeping," he observed. "I nominate me," he said, pushing the curtain aside and limping out of the room.

He was halfway to the elevator before he heard her heels clicking down the hallway behind him. He ignored it and attempted to quicken his pace, although he knew there was no chance that he could outrun her.

"House? House!"

Cameron finally caught up with him and grabbed him by the elbow, forcing him to stop and turn towards her. He saw that she was carrying a clear, plastic bag that held Cuddy's blood samples in her other hand.

"Where are you going?" she asked, sounding clearly annoyed.

He reared back, his eyebrows knitted together. "I'm going to my office," he said, sounding surprised. "Don't you remember," he asked, sounding concerned.

"Hmm, epidemic amnesia, maybe this isn't TGA," he mused, out loud. "Unless-" he said, slowly, snapping his fingers.

"Did you and Dr. Foreman just have sex?" he asked, at the top of his voice. He was immediately gratified to see that his exclamation had caused at least half a dozen of nearby employees to stop in their tracks and gaze curiously at them.

Cameron ignored them completely and continued scowling at House.

"Why aren't you staying with her?"

"You think I need to stay in there while Foreman gives the exam? Why?" He tilted his head to the side. "You think _they're_ going to have sex, now that he's discovered how easy she is?"

"Do you have any idea of how scared she is right now?"

He stared down at her silently for several seconds.

"What exactly is it that you want me to do?" he said, finally. "Stay in there and hold her hand?" he asked, facetiously.

"Maybe," she replied.

"I hate to shatter your illusions, Cameron, but most guys, after they've gotten to third base, aren't really interested in going back to the 'holding hands' stage," he confided to her.

She just shook her head in disbelief.

"But, you know someone who is very good at holding hands?" he asked. "You are," he said, patting her shoulder. "Go hold her hand," he urged, turning away from her.

He had taken only one step before she had managed to stride past him and block his way.

"I would, House, except for two things. In the first place, you are apparently the only person she really remembers at the moment. And secondly, I have other patients I have to attend to right now."

"Oh, yeah, that's right," he said, breaking into a smile. "You have other patients, but I don't, do I? In fact," he added, leaning on his cane, "I have _no _patients at the moment, remember? You specifically told me that I'm not her physician, right?"

"House," she began, sounding frustrated.

"And you know what else, Cameron?" he asked, his voice beginning to rise in anger. "I'm not her husband either. Or her boyfriend. I am sure your inherently rose-colored nature has already painted a romantic glow over this whole situation, but the fact is-"

He bent down to move closer to her. "I'm just her fucking sperm donor. The fact that it's being delivered via a penis rather than a syringe and she's getting a little incidental pleasure doesn't mean she's any more emotionally involved with me than she was with her last donor."

Her mouth dropped open in shock, and a look of absolute disgust crossed her face. But, it lasted just a moment before a being replaced by a look of dawning comprehension.

"Oh, god," House groaned, closing his eyes for a moment. "Let me guess, you're about to give me some advice?" he asked, resignedly.

"Yes," said Cameron, nodding. "Don't do this, House," she said, quietly.

"Don't do what?" he snapped, screwing up his eyes and mouth.

"Don't do this to yourself and please don't do this to her," she whispered.

"What?" he asked, throwing out his hands.

"Don't push her away like this," she said, her voice a mixture of sadness and concern.

For the briefest of moments, she hoped that he might actually listen to her. But instead, she found herself involuntarily jumping backwards as he suddenly raised his cane to her shoulder.

"Can I push you away like this?" he asked, mockingly, shoving her back with the cane. "Hey, it works!" he noted, happily.

"House," she began, and then immediately recoiled as he lurched towards her again.

"Tell you what though," he said, snatching the bag out of her fingers. "Since the lab is on my way to the office, I'll go ahead and deliver it for you." He turned and began to limp away from her.

Her head dropped tiredly to her chest, and she rubbed her hand wearily across her forehead. The sudden sound of shattering glass made her jump and turn in surprise.

House was standing next to a plastic biohazard waste container that was mounted on the wall.

"By the way," he said, resealing the bag. "Expect a call from the lab in a few minutes, complaining that you ordered a blood culture but they can't find the tube."

He smiled triumphantly.

"Told you not to draw it."

With a sigh, she turned to make her way back to the ER.

A few minutes later, he was at his desk, turning on the lamp and rubbing his eyes with his fingers as he waited for his computer to boot up.

He took Cuddy's cell phone out of his pocket and switched it on, searching her directory, looking for the names of various members of the board and hospital administration. Finally finding the name of the person he hated most, and who therefore would give him the greatest pleasure in awakening at this ungodly hour, he punched a button to begin the call. He only let it ring one time, however, when he abruptly switched the phone off.

Pulling out a desk drawer, he searched for a while before finally pulling out a piece of paper which he placed on top of the desk. Consulting the numbers written upon it, he reached for his desk phone and dialed.

There were two rings before a beep sounded and a mechanical voice informed him that _'The number you have reached is not a working number.'_

Sighing, he reached over and pressed down on the receiver hook. Lifting the receiver to his ear, he reached over and dialed a different number. After four rings, a sleepy female voice answered on the other end.

"Hello?"

_Oh, great, she had to answer._

"Put Wilson on," he said.

There was a slight pause. "Is this House?" asked the voice.

"Is this Cut Throat Bitch?" he asked, his voice rising in feigned surprise. "Hey, I didn't expect you to be there, Wilson told me he was planning on dumping you this weekend! Oh, I guess he decided to give you one more for the road, kind of a 'let her down easy' maneuver or-"

"Sorry, House." It was Wilson's voice now. "But Amber was handing the phone over to me, so neither of us really got a chance to hear that diatribe. Shall I put you on speaker phone so you can repeat it?"

"No, but thanks for asking," he said.

"So, House," Wilson said, suppressing a yawn, "what's up-at four-thirty in the morning-besides you, and therefore us?"

There was a short pause.

"I assume that you have Stacy's new unlisted phone number?"

He could imagine each and every one of the Wilson's myriad responses to his request. There would first be a look of doubt, as Wilson made sure he had not simply misheard what House had said. Then he would frown and try to figure out why House was asking and then, of course, why he was specifically asking him and then, finally, why this conversation was taking place at this time of the morning.

"House," he said, slowly, his mind still obviously trying to process all the possibilities, "are you drunk?"

"No, but thanks for asking," he repeated.

"House, I know this is a completely unproductive exercise, because you're obviously going to find some way to get her number whether I give it to you or not, but I'm going to take a swing at it anyway."

House sighed and lifted his legs to the desk, knowing he was in for one of Wilson's lectures.

"It's taken them over two years, but Stacy and Mark have just managed to get their marriage back on track," he began.

"And you know this because?"

There was another short pause and then Wilson sighed again. "Because, Amber and I had dinner with them just last week."

"Oh, my, that must have been cozy," observed House, tilting his chair back. "The President, Vice-President and Secretary of the 'I Hate House Club' all sitting at one table. What special celebrations are they planning this year?"

"Well, they're trying to find an arena big enough to hold the annual 'Burn House in Effigy' event. Unfortunately, The Meadowlands seems to be pretty booked up this year."

There was another pause.

"Do me a favor, House, please wait until Monday morning and then, if you're still determined to talk to her-"

"I think that will be too late," said House, frowning. "I'm sure she'll be discharged by then."

"Who'll be discharged?"

"Cuddy."

"From where?"

"The hospital."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Seriously?"

"Am I ever anything but?"

"Ah,-"

"Look at your caller ID, Wilson, I'm calling from my office."

He heard the bed creak as Wilson apparently looked over to double-check.

"Okay."

"And Cuddy is in the ER right now, getting a neurological exam and waiting her turn, like a good girl, for the MRI."

"Oh, my god, House, what is it?"

"Oh, just a touch of amnesia, you know, the twenty-four-hour kind."

"Seriously?"

"We're not starting that again," he informed him. "Anyway, her overconscientious doctor seems to think that it might be beneficial to her to have someone she knows nearby for a while, and I guess she may be right. I have no idea who she considers a close personal friend at the moment-"

"Besides yourself?"

"Yeah, right," House snorted. "But, she did specifically mention Stacy's name earlier, so I'm betting that it wouldn't hurt for her to come out. You know, hold her hand for awhile."

"Sure," said Wilson. "I will give her a call right away."

"Thanks, and be sure to give Mark my regards," he said. "Hey, by the way, ask him how that whole walking thing is going."

"I hate to break this to you, House, but he has actually recovered full use of his legs."

House laughed shortly. "Just when I thought my night couldn't get any better," he murmured.

"House?" Are you okay?"

"Of course, my memory is absolutely, remorselessly clear at the moment."

"Do you want me to come in?"

He considered the question for a moment. "Sure," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Unless Foreman's really messed up the exam, she still has the use of both hands. You can come hold one too."

"I meant-"

House's finger pressed down on the hook before he could finish his sentence. He released the hook and then placed the receiver next to the phone, ensuring that Wilson could not call him back.

With a grimace, he lowered his feet to the floor and then bent down to open another drawer. This time, there was no need to search, and he grasped the whiskey bottle by the neck with his right hand while unscrewing the lid with his left. He raised it to his lips and took a large swallow. He placed it on the desk and then searched in his pockets. Bringing out the Vicodin bottle, he dispensed another pill into his hand and then reached for the liquor, taking another swig to swallow it down.

He smiled and turned over to his music system, switching on the turntable and lifting the stylus to place it on the third grooved section of the disc. The strains of a loud, jazzy song immediately rang out in the empty office. He reached over to turn the volume up a couple of notches and then reached over to pick up Cuddy's cell phone. He punched in the number again, and tapped his fingers in rhythm with the music as he waited for his call to be answered.

"Hi!" he shouted over the music. "Is this Bob Smithers? Sorry to wake you up so early on Sunday morning…"


	5. The Man That Got Away

**Chapter 05: The Man That Got Away**

Dr. Foreman exited the elevator and walked towards the offices of the Department of Diagnostic Medicine. Although it was now past daybreak, there were only a few meager rays of light creeping in through the windows from the grey, overcast sky outside. The white fluorescent glow from House's office made it easy to pick it out from the other dark, deserted rooms on the floor.

Foreman paused and gazed through the glass door of the office. House was seated at his desk, peering over the reading glasses that were perched on his nose to look at something on his computer monitor. His cap and blazer were thrown carelessly on the shelf behind him. Lying open and scattered all over his desk was an assortment of reference books and medical journals. He held a pen in his right hand, drumming it softly against one of these books, and when Foreman pushed open the door, he could hear music playing softly in the background.

House turned his head as the door opened, his eyes immediately fixing upon the long, thin envelope that Foreman was carrying in his hands.

"That took long enough," he grunted, tossing the pen aside. "What's the verdict?" he asked, holding out his hand as he rose to his feet.

"See for yourself," replied Foreman, carefully keeping his voice and face free of emotion.

House undid the clasp and pulled out the enclosed MRI images. Leaving his cane propped up against the desk, he limped awkwardly over to the lightbox.

"I see you've already got the lab results," Foreman noted, sitting down and nodding at the sheets of paper lying on top of one of the magazines. He tossed a copy of the neurological exam he had performed next to the stack of lab reports.

"Yes, and they're all remarkably unremarkable," said House, fitting the films into the grooves of the lightbox and turning on the light.

Standing close to the screen and keeping his glasses on, he frowned and wordlessly scrutinized the images for several minutes. Then he stepped back and removed his glasses, absentmindedly chewing on the eyepiece as his eyes flicked over the pictures once more.

He turned and slowly made his way back to his chair, pulling the report towards him as he sat down. Putting his glasses back on, he read through the account, his fingers moving slowly down the pages as he read the details and studied the score Foreman had assigned to each element of the examination.

"So," he said, tossing the report to the side and placing his glasses on top of it, "do we have a zebra or a horse?"

"A horse," Foreman admitted, stretching tiredly.

"Damn, I knew I should have made you make a bet on it," said House, smirking broadly as he leaned back in his chair.

"After four years, I've at least learned not to make a wager with you," Foreman said, shaking his head.

"Because I'm always right?"

"No, because you usually never offer to make a bet with someone unless you've already rigged the outcome."

"Yeah," said House, "That's obviously what happened here. The truth is, I held a pillow over Cuddy's face while she slept, just so that I could lure you into the ER tonight and fleece you out of fifty bucks."

"I'll tell you one thing; I never would have bet that a thoroughbred like Cuddy would be willing to mate with a jackass like you," Foreman said, shaking his head.

House pursed his lips and shrugged. "Hey, maybe she wants a mule," he suggested, raising his eyebrows high as the idea struck him. "I hear they're a great hybrid, an ideal mixture of the best qualities of both animals."

"Well, I guess anything's possible, _if_ both parents actually have good qualities, which I doubt in this case."

Foreman paused and screwed up his face. "I don't know, when I try to picture the two of you having a kid, all I see is Cuddy with your stubble-or you in one of her tight skirts." He paused and shuddered for a moment. "Either way you look at it, it's not a very appealing prospect."

House pouted and peered at him disapprovingly. "Now, won't you be embarrassed when we ask you to be Little Eric or Erica's godfather? So," he said, drumming his fingers against the desk, "is Cameron still determined to keep her overnight for observation?"

"Smooth segue, House," he observed, raising his eyebrow. "Yes, she is, and she's not alone. We've already got a phone call from Bob Smithers saying he and some other board members want to make sure she's completely recovered before she's released."

"Smithers is a blithering idiot."

"Yeah, and I hear he's especially fond of you this morning."

"I promised Cuddy I'd let someone _important _know about her condition. Can I help it if he wants to shoot the messenger?"

"Sometimes it's not what you say, but how you say it. Or how loud you say it."

"The man has no appreciation for music."

"Anyway, they're insisting that she take at least a couple of days off before she comes back to work."

"Oh, those imbeciles," grumbled House, propping his left leg up on the desk. "That means that when she does come back she'll be working eighty hours a week instead of her usual sixty, just to prove to them that she's fine. Which means twenty more hours a week hounding me to do my job."

"Yeah, it's such a pain to work for someone who actually takes pride in her work."

"I take pride in my work," protested House. "I just take more pride in my ability to con other people into doing my work for me."

He lowered his foot and stood up, walking over to the end of his desk. To Foreman's surprise, he seated himself on the edge and stared up again at the lightbox.

"Has she started getting her memory back?" he asked, squinting in concentration.

"Not much, a few bits and pieces," Foreman admitted, wondering if he was searching for something specific. "She's starting to get a little anxious about it."

"Did you point out to her that it's not been twenty-four hours yet?" he asked, getting up and switching off the lightbox.

"Yes."

House pulled the images from the viewing screen and began to align them into a neat stack. "And that there's nothing we can do at this point but sit and wait?"

"Yes, but surprisingly she doesn't seem to derive much comfort from those cold, hard facts," Foreman observed tartly.

"Well, that's because she's not a logical, stone-hearted bastard like you," he quipped, "who knows when to call it a day."

House handed the film over to him.

"Right," said Foreman, shaking his head as he placed the images back into the envelope and closed the clasp.

"No, seriously," said House, sitting back down. "Call it a day. Drop those off at Medical Records and go home. There is absolutely nothing more you can do right now."

"I could stay here and check in on her every once in a while to see how she is doing," he argued. "That's the least _someone_ could be doing."

"From the tone of your voice, I take it you're implying that someone should be me?" asked House, picking up his cane.

"If the horseshoe fits…"

"Go home and get some sleep," House said, drumming his cane against the floor.

"Is that an order, Boss?"

"Nope, it's just an eminently logical suggestion. Don't worry," he said, putting the cane down and leaning back in his chair, "she's not going to be alone, I have it covered."

"You don't even know where she is right now," Foreman protested.

"Well, according to the computer," House said, moving his chair to the side as he put his hand over the mouse and clicked on his monitor, "she's either in room 312 or on her way there."

He looked back up at Foreman.

"I know that sometimes it takes hours for them to physically move a patient from ER to the floor once they've been assigned a room, but I'm going to assume that they grease the skids a little bit for the Dean of Medicine."

"Okay," said Foreman, standing up and pushing back his chair. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," House agreed, picking up one of the magazines and placing his reading glasses back on his nose.

Foreman shook his head again and turned to go through the door that connected House's office to the staff room. Switching his labcoat for his jacket, he retrieved his briefcase from the table and went out the other door into the hallway. He cast a sidelong glance into House's office as he passed, and saw that he was apparently still engrossed in reading the article.

Eschewing the elevator, he pushed open the doorway leading into the stairwell. It took him several minutes to reach the drop box located outside the Medical Records Department, and several more to reach the hospital lobby. He paused to zip up his jacket and then stopped, suddenly spying a familiar figure pacing slowly back and forth near the entryway.

"Wilson?" he asked, walking up to him.

"Hey, Foreman," Wilson answered, sticking out his hand. "Did House call you in too?"

"You know about Cuddy?" asked Foreman, obviously surprised, as he shook Wilson's hand.

"Well, not much, just that she's here and suffering from 'temporary amnesia' according to House," he admitted.

Foreman nodded, taking in the sweatshirt, jeans and athletic shoes that Wilson was wearing. Like Foreman himself, Wilson was usually a stickler for wearing a neatly pressed shirt, tie, slacks and dress shoes while on duty. So, he was obviously just here to see Cuddy, not because he was doing rounds this morning.

"So, it can't be too serious if you're going home," prodded Wilson.

"No, it should be resolving itself anytime now," he said. "Go on up," he said, pointing in the direction of the elevator. "She's in 312 and I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

He stopped and frowned for a minute. "I mean, as long as she actually remembers who you are."

"Is there a chance she won't?" said Wilson, his eyes opening in surprise.

"Actually, yes," admitted Foreman. "She didn't remember me at all; she kind of remembered Cameron, but the only person she seemed to really know was House."

"He is…unforgettable."

"That's one word for it. Anyway, I guess the only way to find out is to go up there and see for yourself," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, I think I'll wait for Stacy and Mark," said Wilson, looking back over his shoulder. "I spoke to her on her cell phone a couple of minutes ago and they were almost at the exit, so they should be here soon."

"Mark and Stacy Warner?" asked Foreman, looking astounded.

"Yeah."

Foreman considered this information for several seconds. "Did you or House call her?" he asked, finally.

"House asked me to give her a call. Cuddy apparently mentioned Stacy by name, so he's at least certain she remembers who _she_ is."

"That's very interesting," he said. "Especially given the current situation."

"The current situation?" Wilson asked, uncertainly. "Something more than what's going on _medically_ with Cuddy?"

Foreman smiled and laughed softly. "Sorry, Wilson, I really can't say anything else."

Wilson frowned and looked suspicious.

"Sorry," said Foreman, again, holding out his hands and moving to walk past the other doctor.

"Is House here?" Wilson called out, as Foreman started through the revolving door.

"In his office!" he shouted back.

The early morning air was misty and cool, and he pulled his collar higher on his neck as he walked out to his car. He opened the door and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat before climbing behind the wheel. He turned the ignition and then paused to look back up at the hospital. It was easy to pick out House's office by the light shining through the windows on the otherwise empty floor.

Just when he thought he really understood House, the S.O.B. somehow always managed to surprise him. In the first place, he had honestly expected to find him sleeping, or at least dozing, when he walked into the office. A quick glance at the books sprawled over his desk had been enough for Foreman to realize House, despite his proclaimed absolute confidence in the diagnosis and prognosis, was desperately scouting out the latest research and information on TGA. He had certainly never, ever, seen House spend that much time examining an MRI, much less go back for a second look. He could also not recall House taking such an interest in reading a neurological exam report. It was interesting to see the preternaturally self-confident doctor double-checking his own conclusions.

He drummed his fingers against the wheel and pursed his lips thoughtfully. A part of him was dying to go back into the hospital and wait to see how this whole House/Cuddy/Stacy scenario was going to enfold. But, on the other hand, he really wanted to get home to enjoy at least part of his one remaining day off.

He also knew that he had already pushed his luck as far as he dared for the moment. House's abrupt change of subject earlier had made it clear that he was reaching the end of his admittedly short supply of patience. Once House was no longer distracted by Cuddy's condition, he would be sure to direct the full brunt of his displeasure in Foreman's direction.

The relationship between the two doctors had always been tenuous at best, and it had taken quite a while for a temporary truce to be declared after the initial skirmishes sparked by his return to the hospital. Foreman had the sneaking suspicion that, come Monday morning, there would be open warfare between them once more.

No, the wisest thing to do would be to go home, get some rest, and build up his strength before stepping back into the arena with House.

He sighed, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the space, heading home to his apartment.

X X X X X X X X

"Rise and shine, House!"

House held his hand over his eyes, the combination of sunlight suddenly filling the room and the clattering sound of the plastic vertical blinds being pulled apart instantly jolting him awake. After a few moments, he managed to pry his eyelids open enough to make out the outline of Wilson's silhouette in front of the window.

"Don't you think 1 p.m. is a little late to be sleeping in, even for you?" his friend asked, dropping the curtain cord and walking towards him.

"Not when I've been up half the night," retorted House.

He had been sleeping in the yellow reclining chair that occupied a corner of his office, his feet propped upon on the ottoman. He moved slowly and stiffly for a moment, boosting himself up in the chair before moving his feet to the floor and gingerly flexing both legs.

"Let's also factor in the amount of whiskey consumed," Wilson said, picking up the bottle that sat on the table next to the chair. "Honestly, House," he said, walking across the room and depositing the bottle back into the desk drawer, "don't you ever worry about someone from administration catching you with this in your office?"

"Oh, my god, you're right!" House exclaimed, reaching over to grab his Vicodin bottle, and down one of the pills. "It would completely ruin their image of me as such a clean and sober guy," he snorted.

Wilson just sighed and shook his head.

"What took you so long to get here?" House asked, picking up his cane and rising to his feet.

Wilson crossed his arms and sat on the edge of House's desk. "I've been here since a little past six o'clock," he informed him.

"But not _here_," House emphasized, pointing down at the rug with his cane to indicate he specifically meant his office.

"No," Wilson conceded, shaking his head. "I foolishly decided to waste my time visiting with Cuddy when I could have been up here, watching you sleep."

"How is she?" asked House, grimacing as he paced back and forth, slowly placing more and more weight on his right leg as he walked.

"She seems to have made a complete recovery."

House paused and smiled, holding his hands out to his side. "Ah, the healing powers of Dr. James Wilson," he intoned, and then resumed his pacing.

"No, it wasn't me at all," said Wilson. "But it was pretty amazing to see it happen," he conceded.

"Oh, I know. Stacy let her touch her crucifix. Guess Cuddy will be converting, huh? Maybe if you ask her nicely, she'll give you a deal on her collection of menorahs and Stars of David."

"No, that's not exactly what happened. Do you want to hear the story or not?"

"Oh, absolutely," House assured him, "I'm all ears."

"Well, let's see. To begin with, Cuddy clearly remembered both me and Stacy. But we had to introduce her to Mark, because she had absolutely no idea who he was."

"Lucky girl, wish I could say the same. Then what did you do?"

"We just sat around and chatted for awhile, talking about different things and trying to jog her memory."

"So how much of your history did she remember?" he asked, walking over to his desk and lowering himself into the chair.

"Well, she certainly seemed to remember me pretty well," he said, moving to sit in the chair opposite him. "But she asked how Bonnie was doing."

House grinned mischievously. "At which point you had to confess that she was now the second ex-Mrs. James Wilson, and that Julie had been wife number three."

"Yes."

"Did you mention that there's an 'Amber alert' out for wife number four?"

"No."

House continued smiling as he leaned over and picked up the large red and white tennis ball that he kept at his desk.

"Did my name come up in the conversation?" he asked, much too casually, his eyes trained on the ball as he began tossing it up in the air.

"Several times," Wilson admitted. "Cuddy came right out and asked what had happened to your leg, and why you and Stacy had split up."

House caught the ball in his hand and turned to look at Wilson. "Wow," he said, in exaggerated amazement, "the way you said that, you almost made it sound like two different things."

"I believe they are separate, but related events," corrected Wilson.

"Meanwhile, good old Mark sat there quietly supporting his beautiful wife, just like the dutiful, salt-of-the-earth, absolutely boring husband he is," mocked House.

He frowned down at the ball in his hand for a moment. "Do you think he's cheating on her, now that he's regained full use of his lower body?" he asked, throwing the ball back up into the air.

"No," said Wilson, shaking his head.

House narrowed his eyes. "Think _she's_ balling-"

"No!_"_

House caught the ball and placed it back upon his desk. "It's so comforting that you, of all people, are so ready to vouch for a married couple's fidelity to one another."

"Thank you," Wilson said, sounding annoyed. "It's so comforting to know that you are still a jerk who wants to cause trouble with their marriage even though you're the one who pushed Stacy back into his arms."

"At least I'm consistently inconsistent," House retorted.

"But one thing we did not talk about at all was Mark's illness, or the fact that Stacy had brought him to you for a diagnosis," continued Wilson. "Then, all of a sudden, Cuddy just turned to Mark and said how happy she was that he's out of the wheelchair."

House leaned back in his chair, looking exasperated.

"I've known her since college and she doesn't recall anything about my infarction, or the surgery, or the gunshot wounds and the failed Ketamine treatment, but she suddenly looks at this moron she hardly knows and remembers that _he _couldn't walk?"

"I didn't know this was a competition to see whose illness she remembered first," Wilson said. He paused, and a strange gleam came into his eye. "Or was it, House?"

House threw him an annoyed look. "Stop being an over-analytical pain in the ass and continue with the story."

"Anyway," Wilson continued, "she said it was literally like turning on a light switch. Suddenly, the memories that were missing in action a few seconds before were right back where they had always been."

"Hallelujah," taunted House. ""Not only is the lame man walking, but he's managed to raise Cuddy's memory from the dead. Maybe Stacy should throw Jesus away and wear a little figurine of 'St. Mark' around her neck."

"I'll mention it to her the next time I see her," promised Wilson.

"So, why didn't everybody go home then?" asked House, propping his chin in his hand.

"Because the people in upper management want her to stay overnight and, strangely enough, the rest of us didn't feel like abandoning there in her room, like someone else I know."

"Hey, don't be too hard on him. I told Foreman to go home."

"Actually, Cuddy was even more anxious to talk after that, to make sure that she really was remembering things correctly."

Wilson sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Of course, the thing that none of us could figure out was why you weren't in there too, crashing the party."

"Well, that would have been an awkward situation, don't you think?" asked House, opening his eyes widely and clucking his tongue.

"Yes, and you, unlike normal people, thrive on socially awkward situations."

"I was here the whole time," House insisted.

"Yeah, I guess you were. Or else you're a hell of a lot better at hiding than you used to be. We took turns going out in the hallway and looking around to see if we could catch you spying on us. Maybe you've invested in a better disguise, but none of us spotted you in the usual places; peering out from behind the pillars or peeking around the corners. Stacy even looked under the bed. Cuddy finally insisted that she was really doing much better, and that we should be going."

"So, they're gone," said House, sitting forward and rolling his cane between his hands.

"Yes, they have tickets for a concert this afternoon, so they reluctantly left."

"You're on your way out too?"

"Not really," he answered. "I told Cuddy I'd go out and bring her back some lunch."

"Are you insinuating that the cafeteria cuisine is less than edible?"

"Yes," said Wilson, nodding his head, "especially on Sunday when they serve weird combinations of all their leftovers. I'm going to go pick up some food from 'Thai Express'. Should I pick something up for you?"

"Nope," said House, reaching back to pick up his blazer from the shelf.

"Since when do you turn down the chance to make me pay for your food?" asked Wilson. "Are you going to go check on her while I run out and pick up lunch?"

"Nope," he repeated, pulling on the jacket and digging Cuddy's set of car keys out of the pocket. "I'm going to pick her car up from the Emergency Room lot and you're going to meet me with your car at her regular parking space. You can give her the keys when you deliver lunch. That way she can drive herself home tomorrow when she finally breaks out of here. Meanwhile, you can drop me off at my place before you go pick up the food."

"Your place?" said Wilson, sitting back in his chair and wrinkling his forehead. "Well, that's kind of strange."

"Yeah, I do live in a kind of strange place. But, what the hell, it's home," said House, putting on his cap. "Let's go."

Picking up his cane he walked over to the office door. Pushing it open, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Wilson had made no attempt to rise from his chair. Leaning against the door handle, he paused and directed his eyes upward towards the ceiling for a few moments before suddenly turning around and making his way back to the desk.

"All right," he said, resignedly, placing his cane across the desk. "I'll play."

He sat down in his chair, propped himself up with his elbows on the desk and folded his hands.

"Gee, Dr. Wilson," he said, in a chirpy, prepubescent tone, "What do you mean, 'that's strange'?" he asked. "That is my line, right?" he added, in his normal register.

Wilson smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you know what Cuddy told us about last night?" he asked.

"No," said House, looking only vaguely interested. "But, I'll bet you're going to tell me."

"She said," replied Wilson, leaning across the desk towards him, "that she woke up in the middle of the night, realized something was wrong and called you. You came over to her house, examined her and then took her into the ER when you realized it was something serious."

"Are you saying I wouldn't be the logical person for her to call?" he asked, sitting back in his chair and looking puzzled.

"No, that makes sense," said Wilson. "What doesn't make sense was _how _she called you. You just told me she doesn't remember anything about your life since before your leg was injured. How on earth did she know your new phone number?"

"Because she looked at her cell phone and saw my name and hit the speed dial," he said. "Not exactly a big mystery, but I'm sure glad I could clear that up for you. Now, can we go?" he asked, starting to push himself out of the chair.

"Do you want to know what else I thought was odd?" asked Wilson.

"Not really," House said, settling back down into the chair. "But I have the feeling you're going to force me to listen to you anyway."

"Because the three of us were there, I had to move the pile of Cuddy's clothes off a chair in order to find a place to sit. Funny thing was, it looked like Cuddy had worn sandals in to the ER."

"You've never seen Cuddy wear sandals before?"

"Who puts sandals on their feet to go into the ER at three o'clock in the morning, particularly on a very chilly night like last night?"

"Did you notice that they were stylish sandals?" House argued, taking off his cap and tossing it down beside his cane. "If Cuddy chose practicality over fashion, would she wear those skirts that cut off her circulation?"

"Oh, of course," said Wilson, holding up his hands. "That makes much more sense then my theory that maybe she was wearing those sandals because she actually left her house sometime yesterday afternoon-when it was unseasonably warm, remember? Good thing you're here to help me think this out logically. Know what else was in that pile of clothes?"

House leaned down over the desk. "Frilly underwear?" he whispered. "Or was she 'going commando'?"

"I believe that there was underwear in the stack, and I'm absolutely sure that you could describe it to me in detail. But, the really strange thing was, your leather jacket was there, mixed in with her clothes."

House frowned. "You're the one who just said it was cold this morning."

"Yes, but why would Cuddy need to borrow your jacket if she was leaving from her own place? Wouldn't she have a closetful of her own coats to choose from?"

"Yeah, but since she was going with the leather sandals, she asked if she could wear the jacket, too. You know, going for a kind of matching ensemble thing."

Wilson smacked his palm against his forehead. "Of course, it's crystal clear to me now! And here I was thinking that maybe Cuddy had borrowed it because she was at your place in the middle of the night when this all happened."

House reared back in his chair, his mouth opening wide as he gasped. "Wilson!" he said, shaking his head. "Whatever would Cuddy be doing at my apartment in the middle of the night?"

"Only one thing I can think of," he answered, calmly.

House clucked his tongue. "That's because you have a dirty mind, Wilson," he informed him, gravely.

"How's your mind, House?" he asked. "Have _you _suffered a loss of memory lately?"

"Well, I'm certainly going to try and forget this particular conversation as soon as possible," he informed him.

"You just asked me to drop you off at your apartment. Wouldn't your car be over at Cuddy's house if she was telling the truth?"

"Maybe I took a taxi over there."

"Right," said Wilson, doubtfully. "You respond to a cry for help in the middle of the night by calling a taxi and spending money on a cab ride rather than taking your motorcycle or your car over there immediately."

They stared at each other in silence for several seconds before House leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Don't look so smug," he admonished him, shaking his head. "You have not just demonstrated brilliant powers of deductive reasoning, Cuddy just told a really stupid lie. Besides," he added, narrowing his eyes, "you, of all people, should know exactly what's going on," he said, putting his hands down and reaching over to pull open the middle drawer of his desk.

"Read 'em and weep!" he said, tossing a manila folder over to Wilson's side of the desk.

Wilson threw him a suspicious look and then opened up the folder. He glanced at the top page for a moment before looking back at House.

"Just when I think your ego couldn't possibly get any larger," he murmured, shaking his head. "You keep a copy of your semen analysis in the desk? Why don't you just have it laminated and framed?" he suggested.

House smiled and shrugged his shoulders, resting his arms on the side of the chair. He pushed the seat back and stretched out his legs underneath the desk.

Wilson scanned the page and then moved it to the side. He bent down to look at the next page and then blinked in surprise, his mouth gaping open in astonishment as he picked the paper up in his fingers and brought it up close to his nose.

"You also keep a copy of _my _semen analysis in your desk," he said, his voice a strangled whisper as he slowly lowered the page back down to the desk. "Ok, House, you have now definitely crossed the line into creepy territory."

He glanced through the second report again. "How in the world-"

"Dr Irwin's not too careful about locking up his charts,' House explained. "It was in the back of Cuddy's file, from when she was considering using you instead of me," he explained. "I took the liberty of making a copy. Or two," he added, in a low breath.

"You have more of these?" screeched Wilson, looking horrified.

"Is it any wonder why she went with me instead of you? Just look at those numbers."

"I'm sure this is a very scientific exercise, but wouldn't it be easier to just get out a ruler and measure?" Wilson scoffed.

"We have spent way too much time standing next to each other at the urinals for that even to be an issue," mocked House in return.

Reluctantly, Wilson picked up both sheets and glanced between the two reports.

"My sperm count is twenty-seven million per ml and yours is forty-five million. That means we're both well above the normal range of more than twenty million per ml," protested Wilson.

"Yeah, that's like saying a pair of aces is the same as a pair of tens just because they're both better than a pair of deuces," House sneered.

"Yes, but remember that this was sprung on me as kind of a pop quiz," argued Wilson. ""Knowing you, I'll bet you 'boned up' for this exam. Or rather," he said, correcting himself, "you didn't do any boning for several days before you collected the specimen, just to ensure you'd achieve the maximum recovery of sperm."

"It might have helped a little bit," House admitted, grudgingly, "but still-"

"Fine, I concede the point. When it comes to numbers, your sperm can beat up my sperm with half their tails tied behind their heads."

Putting the sheets back down on the desk, Wilson bent over them to continue reading.

"Our motility is exactly the same," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Does that surprise you?" asked House.

"No, but doesn't it bother you at all that your sperm are more mobile than you are?" he shot back. "Hmm," he added, looking back down at the report, "I wonder if they saw any of them using little canes to get around?"

"Notice the volume?"

"Yes," said Wilson, "Five mls for you and only four and a half for me. But, I edged ahead of you in both liquefaction time and fructose concentration."

"Ah, I always knew you were sweeter and softer than me," House jeered.

"Of course," said Wilson, stacking the papers back into a pile, "the real surprise is that they reported 'normal morphology' for you. I would have expected your sample to show a preponderance of 'giant-headed spermatozoa'."

"Sour grapes, Wilson."

"Obviously," he replied, putting the papers back into the folder and tossing it back towards House. "I and all other lesser males can only bow our heads in awe when in the presence of your prodigious procreative potency."

House picked up the folder and pulled out another piece of paper. "You're just jealous because you never even made it to the postcoital test," he said, waving the report in the air.

"No, I didn't," admitted Wilson. "I was both flattered and honored when Cuddy asked me if I would consider helping her have a child. But, it only went as far as that initial sperm test. In the end, I just couldn't go through with it."

"Oh, sure you could," said House, putting the page back into the folder. "Just close your eyes and think of England. Or Charlize Theron. Whichever helps you more."

"_If_ I had pursued this with her, it would have been through artificial insemination."

"Just another reason why I won the gig."

"Cuddy didn't even ask you until I had told her that I had definitely decided against it," Wilson said, sounding exasperated.

"Because you chickened out," scoffed House.

"Yes, I did," he admitted. "It was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever had to make. It was very hard for me to turn her down, because I knew how much this meant to her. But, I finally had to face the fact that there was just no way I could stand by and pretend to remain emotionally uninvolved at the sight of Cuddy carrying and raising my own child.."

"And that won't be a problem with me?"

"Absolutely not," he replied.

House cocked his head to the side. "I'm surprised to hear you admit that."

"Why not?" Wilson asked, sitting back in his chair. "You spend most of your life _pretending _to be emotionally uninvolved. Which is why you were up here, hiding in your office today."

"I wasn't hiding, I was sleeping," House insisted.

"Yes, well, you finally drank enough liquor to pass out for awhile," he said. "If you really wanted to sleep, House, you would have gone home. But, there was no way," he said, leaning over and pointing his finger in House's face, "that you were going to leave here until you were sure that she was okay. But, you sure as hell didn't want anyone to know how concerned you were. Luckily enough, you knew that I was coming in and that I would come up here and let you know the moment she recovered or if she got any worse."

"Of course I'm concerned," said House. "If something happens to her, I might end up with a boss that actually expected me to show up to work. Or someone who wouldn't be offering those neat fringe benefits I've been getting lately." He paused and grimaced. "Or I might end up with a _guy_ who demands those extra fringe benefits."

Wilson fell back into his chair and laughed softly. "Oh, come off it, House," he said, shaking his head. "In the past few years, all it has taken is the slightest hint that Cuddy and I might be interested in becoming more than friends to make you run around like a maniac trying to break us up. Cuddy also confided to me that when she was on a blind date about a year ago, you were practically stalking her the entire night."

"Which just proves I don't want to see her wasting her time on losers, not that _I _want to be involved with her," he protested.

Wilson sighed and closed his eyes. "House," he said, opening his eyes and leaning towards him, "if you would put half the energy you expend on keeping other guys from having a relationship with Cuddy into actually _having_ a relationship with Cuddy, I think we would all be a lot happier."

"Well, that's what I live for, to make people happy," House sniffled, raising a hand to his brow.

"I'm obviously wasting my breath here," he said, shaking his head.

"It's never stopped you before," said House. "Besides," he said, getting to his feet, "I just love getting relationship advice from the guy with three exes to his credit."

"Speaking of exes," said Wilson, looking up at him. "I also have two messages from Stacy for you."

House studied his face for a moment. "And was Mark in the room when she gave them to you?" he asked, his voice keen with interest.

"No, it was his turn to be out in the hallway looking for you," said Wilson, rising from his chair. "She also waited until Cuddy was in the bathroom. She said-"

He paused and screwed up his face in concentration.

"Tell Greg that I guess someone else has developed a taste for Vindaloo curry," he said, slowly, trying to be sure he was remembering the words correctly.

House smiled and reached down for his cap. "Just one of those special little 'code words' between ex-lovers," he assured him, as he placed the hat on his head. "What was the second message?"

"She said, and I quote: 'Also tell him that if he keeps acting like a jerk towards Lisa that I'm going to come back here and kick his balls off'."

House blinked several times before replying.

"Think that means she's looking for an excuse to come and see me?" he asked, walking around the desk and heading towards the door.

"No, but I think I'd invest in a pair of iron-clad boxers if I were you," Wilson said, following him into the hallway. "After all, it would be a tragedy if those 'family jewels'-or should I say 'national treasures'-were damaged."

X X X X X X X X

Cuddy sighed and flipped through the pages of the thick report that she was holding, counting how many pages were left to read. She was sorely tempted to just sign her name on the final page, but she knew she was going to have to get through the details of the new medical school curriculum sooner or later. Raising her left hand to her face, she closed her eyes and pushed her glasses up, tiredly pinching the bridge of her nose. She opened her eyes and stared back down at the page for a moment before tossing the report aside.

The tray table that was pulled over the bed was filled with paperwork. A small pile of completed work was on the left side of the tray, and a large stack of unread reports loomed ominously on the other side. With a shake of her head, she put the report she had been reading on the bottom of the right-hand stack and began looking for a smaller report to work on in its place.

A tap at the door interrupted her search. She raised her head and saw that House was striding into the hospital room, a plastic shopping bag dangling from his wrist.

"I knew you wouldn't be resting," he said, raising his cane to point accusingly at the tray. "Why didn't you just ask them to wheel your bed down to your office?"

"Because then you would demand that we put a bed in _your_ office, too," she replied, taking off her glasses and setting them down on the tray. "And we both know you spend enough time sleeping there as it is," she said, smiling up at him.

She was wearing a fresh hospital gown, and her hair was no longer pulled back into a ponytail. Judging from its scent and sheen, she had found time to take a shower before settling down to work.

He studied her for a moment, wrinkling his nose.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Well, the color's slightly better than the last one you had on," he said, gesturing at her gown. "But, it's still not _you_," he declared, throwing the bag down onto the tray.

She cautiously loosened the strings and peered into the bag. After a moment, she laughed and reached in to pull out a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt.

"Gee," she said, "this looks just like the clothes I had in the bottom drawer of my desk. Gosh, I could swear I told Wilson to lock my office door again after he brought me this stuff," she said, gesturing at the paperwork.

"Oh, he did," House assured her, motioning for her to lift her arms off of the tray. He pushed the table to the side and sat down on the edge of her bed. "The drawer was locked, too. Boy, you're really getting paranoid these days."

"Yeah, almost like I'm afraid some deranged employee is out to prove that he can break into my private property anytime he likes, no matter how often I change the locks."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that too loud," he warned her. "Someone might overhear you and get the idea that I've been in your drawers lately," he whispered.

"Yeah, let's nip that rumor in the bud," she agreed. "Thanks," she said, tossing the clothes onto the bedside table, "I really didn't want to spend a third day in those," she said, nodding towards the clothes piled on one of the chairs.

"Oh, and don't forget these," said House, digging down into the pocket of his blazer.

He tossed two small pieces of leopard-patterned fabric into her lap.

"What is this?" she asked, picking them up and regarding them dubiously.

"It's underwear," he informed her.

"No, House," she said, tossing them back to him. "There is not nearly enough fabric there to count as underwear. I'd get more coverage out of a cork and a pair of Vicodin strung together."

"I can arrange that," he assured her. "Oh, all right," he said, putting them back into his pocket. "We'll save these for one of our 'special theme nights'."

"Tarzan and Jane?"

"No, Sheena and Rick Thorne. That's a slightly less well-known pair, but I admit you're more 'Queen of the Jungle' than I am 'Lord of the Apes."

"Not necessarily," she said, shaking her head.

"Wait until you see what I have in my other pocket," he said, reaching down to retrieve something. "I even put in a fresh battery."

"Do we have to pull the shades?" she asked, and then began to laugh as he showed her that it was only his penlight.

She held still as he bent over and examined her pupils.

Flicking off the light, he leaned over and gently knocked his fingers against her forehead. "Doesn't sound as empty as it did this morning," he commented, sitting back and putting the light back into his pocket.

"It seems to have gotten refilled," she said, pulling up the covers slightly as she sat back.

"All memories returned?" he asked, sitting back further onto the bed as he placed his cane on top of the blanket.

"Everything except for the twelve hours or so before it happened," she replied. "Which I guess is pretty typical for these attacks?"

"Yep," he said, nodding his head. "Since you had a power outage, so to speak, those files were lost somewhere between the short- and long-term memory storage systems. Poof."

"That's a shame," she said, shaking her head. "All I can recall about yesterday is getting dressed to come over to your place. Judging by how much better it's been getting over the past four months, yesterday must have been pretty fantastic."

"It was," House assured her. "Now, if you'd only let me videotape us like I keep asking you, you'd be able to see for yourself."

"You really are a much better lover than you used to be, House," she said, grinning as she raised her hands up behind her head.

"Thanks, I think," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I guess I've improved with age, like wine."

"Well, the Cialis might be helping just a bit too," she teased. "Though I think the real problem with our one-night stand years ago was too much wine, for both of us."

"For both of us? You're the one who threw up right afterwards."

"Yeah, but you're the one who passed out and hit his head on the toilet."

"At least I made it to the toilet," he said. "I guess yesterday was a slight improvement over that," he admitted.

She lowered her hands and tilted her head to the side. "Three times, House?" she whispered.

"All right," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "it was only twice. But we were headed for three until you decided to kick me," he argued.

"I'm sorry," she said, raising her hand up to brush a strand of hair away from her temple.

"Sure," he replied, nodding his head. "It was just an accident," he said, skeptically, raising his fingers to indicate quotation marks.

"No, I mean it, House," she said, dropping her gaze to study the sheet for a moment. "I'm really sorry for all _this_," she added, looking back up at him.

"This?" he asked gesturing around the room. "Yeah, I'm really pissed at you for having an unexpected and completely involuntary interruption of the blood flow to your brain like that. It was very careless of you. Try and have a little more self-control next time," he urged, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he teased her.

She leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hand. "How difficult is Foreman going to be?"

"I believe his exact words were that he is looking forward to 'making me squirm'," he replied.

Cuddy groaned and closed her eyes. "Maybe I'll just take the next month off," she moaned, leaning back against the pillows again. "Or wait until a cease fire has been announced."

"I think it's more likely than one of us will kill the other," House assured her. "But," he added, "he will respect your confidentiality. As much as he is going to be needling me and possibly you, he won't be blabbing to anyone about it."

Cuddy nodded in agreement.

"Cameron and Wilson, likewise, will not be announcing this on the PA system. On the other hand, be prepared for them to be brimming over with helpful advice."

"Yeah," she said, "I'm sure they will be."

"Are you going to take the advice she gave you earlier?"

She looked at him blankly.

"About repeating the HCG in a couple of days," he clarified.

She frowned and shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I've been disappointed too many times already. If I saw the level rising, I'd get my hopes up, even though it wouldn't be definite. I also don't want to find out I _am_ pregnant and then miscarry early again, like last time," she admitted. "It'll be easier just to pretend it's a late period."

"When would you do a pregnancy test?" he asked.

"Not until I'm at least a week late."

She paused and looked down at her fingernails.

"She didn't come out and say it, but I'm pretty sure Stacy has also figured out there's something going on between us," she murmured.

"Yeah, I have two good reasons to believe that," House said.

She looked at him quizzically.

"She said something to Wilson," he explained.

"Oh."

She chewed on her lip for a moment.

"But, this hasn't completely messed things up, has it?" she asked, anxiously. "I mean, it did seem to be a real _shock _to everyone. So I would say that our behavior over the past four months hasn't made anyone suspicious, right?"

"Apparently not," he replied.

"I do think that, once I get back to work, we should be extra discreet though, don't you?"

"Sure," he said, nodding his head in agreement.

"Good," she said, taking in a deep breath and smiling. "So, we're on for next month?"

"Absolutely. If your cycle stays consistent," he said, wrinkling his forehead as he calculated, "you're due to ovulate again four weeks from tomorrow?"

She nodded her head

"I'll put it on my calendar. But, don't worry, I'll be discreet," he assured her. "I'll just write 'Spawn with Cuddy' in big red letters across the date."

She rolled her eyes as he got up off the bed.

"Unless, of course," he said, leaning over to pick up his cane, "it actually took this time, and you're no longer in need of my services."

She hesitated for just a moment. "Of course," she said, raising her eyebrows and smiling again. "That would be great, wouldn't it?"

"Here," he said, transferring his cane to his left hand and digging in his shirt pocket for something. "Almost forgot to give you this," he said, handing over her cell phone.

"Thanks," she said, reaching out to take it. "Is it safe for me to have it now?" she teased.

"Yeah, those bigwigs have told everyone to leave you alone for a few days, so you can recover," he said. "By the way, I programmed in a few new numbers for you, you might want to check them out."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and then flipped the phone open and searched her directory. She took one look, groaned loudly, and glared up at him

"Oh, great, just the numbers I wanted at the top of my list: _Hot Girlz_, _Sexy Babes_, and _Wet Chicks_," she read aloud, shaking her head. "You know, House, this telephone is actually hospital property," she said. "They periodically check to see what numbers are dialed."

"Yeah, right, they're supposed to be monitoring the internet use also. Never stopped me from downloading porn," he announced, proudly.

"Believe me, I know," she said, snapping the phone closed and tossing it over on top of the clothes he had brought to her.

He had gone over to the stack of her other clothes and was digging his leather jacket out from under the pile.

"Thanks for letting me borrow that," she said, as he stood up.

"No problem," he said, folding it over his arm.

"I guess I'll see you on Wednesday," she said. "They want me to take tomorrow and Tuesday off."

"So I heard," he said, turning towards the door.

"You want to push that table back?" she asked, pulling the covers up around her again and pointing towards the tray table.

"Nope," he said, shaking his head and walking back towards the bed. "It's been a long day and you look exhausted," he said, looking down at her. "The work will wait until tomorrow, '_Superdean_'. Get some sleep," he ordered.

He put out his hand and for just a moment she thought he was going to caress her cheek. Instead, she felt the smooth leather of the jacket brush against her face as he bent over to switch off the light that was mounted above the bed.

"Good night, Cuddy," he said, and turned towards the door.

"Good night, House," she whispered.

He limped to the door and turned off the other light switch. He walked out into the hallway and there was a soft swooshing sound as the door closed automatically behind him. She remained sitting up in bed, watching as he walked slowly but steadily down the hall, not once pausing or turning back to look at her. She waited until he had disappeared around the corner before she pulled the covers up around her neck and turned over to lie down.

She lay quietly for a few moments and then sat up again and began trying to punch and pound the pillows into a more comfortable position.

"You just told the man to be discreet," she murmured out loud. "Did you really expect him to kiss you goodbye?" she harrumphed, as she lay down again.

"_No,"_ said a quiet voice inside her head, _"But you sure hoped that he would."_


	6. As Time Goes By

Chapter 06: As Time Goes By

**Chapter 06: As Time Goes By**

_Wednesday morning, three days later_

It was a beautiful morning, warm and clear, and the sun sparkled off the smooth, silver finish of her BMW as Cuddy pulled into her parking space. Turning off the engine, she pulled down the driver-side visor and checked out her reflection in the attached mirror. She had taken special care with her make-up this morning, adding an extra coat of mascara and brushing on just a bit more eyeshadow than she usually used in the daytime. Her blush and lipstick were darker and redder than the light pink hues she normally wore, the shades specially chosen to complement the vibrant color of her new suit.

Satisfied with her appearance, she flipped the visor back into place and bent down to press the trunk release button. Looping her purse over her shoulder, she got out of the car and stepped to the rear of the vehicle. She grasped the handles of the large box and lifted it out of the trunk.

"Hey, Cuddy, welcome back!"

She turned and smiled at Wilson as he hurried through the parking lot to meet her.

"Let me get that," he said, reaching over to take the box from her hands.

"Thanks," she said, gratefully, as she turned to slam down the trunk lid and lock the doors with her remote.

"This stack seems to have grown since Sunday night," he commented, peering down into the carton.

"Yeah, I picked up a few more projects before I left on Monday morning," she admitted.

"Nothing like a couple of days 'away from work'," he said, his tone slightly disapproving.

"Oh, come on, you and I both know that the board's 'concern' for my well-being also means that certain members are going to look for any excuse to send me home permanently. I'm going to have to be working extra-hard for a while. By the way," she said, stopping suddenly and turning to look him in the face. "What exactly was said about me at the board meeting Monday night?"

Wilson smiled reassuringly. "Just that people were sorry to hear about what had happened, but they were relieved when I told them you had made a complete recovery before you were sent home," he said.

"Nothing about the fact that House brought me into the ER?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"He is universally hated by the rest of the board members, but they all agreed he was the logical choice for you to call."

"Even Bob Smithers?" she asked, with a grin.

"Yes, although he did wonder out loud if it wasn't time for someone, preferably with better aim than last time, to shoot the bastard again," he informed her, as they began to walk towards the hospital.

"Did you finish all of this?" he asked, shifting the box over to carry it beneath his right arm.

"Yes, I did," she said, proudly, her high heels clicking smartly against the cement as they walked. "You'd be amazed at how much work you can get done when you don't have to waste all your time answering the phone and attending meetings."

"Or having certain employees bursting into your office all day long with outlandish demands or seeking your permission to perform unorthodox treatments," he suggested, smiling.

"That definitely helps," she laughed, pointing her finger in the air as she shared a knowing smile with him over their mutual long-suffering patience for House's narcissistic behavior.

"Looks like you even had time to do a little shopping?" he asked, slowing his steps for a moment and tilting his head to watch her as she walked ahead of him.

"Yeah," she said, turning back to look at him. "What do you think?" she asked, twirling around to give him a full view of her outfit.

She had spent a day and a half at home pouring over paperwork and bent over her laptop, allowing herself only a few meal and bathroom breaks. By Tuesday afternoon, she had been more than ready for a little diversion. She drove to one of her favorite stores, and was surprised and delighted to discover that there was a sale in progress. She had already tried on several suits and was trying to decide between them when a bright splash of red at the end of a rack had caught her eye. It was not a color she normally wore, nor was the snow-white, high-necked silk blouse a typical style for her. But once she had tried it on, she had fallen in love with the outfit. A quick trip through the rest of the store had netted a perfectly matched purse, necklace and pair of high heels to complete her ensemble.

"It's fantastic," said Wilson, smiling appreciatively.

"It's not too much, is it?" she asked, suddenly sounding doubtful.

"Absolutely not," he assured her. "It says: 'I'm back, I'm at the top of my game and I'm rarin' to go'," he said.

"Thanks. I can't wait to hear what House says about it," she admitted as they both began to walk forward again. "I doubt if he'll leave it at 'The Lady in Red'. Maybe he'll ask if I'm a Candy Striper, or a Candy _Stripper_," she joked.

"Unfortunately, he's not going to be seeing it, at least not today" said Wilson, his voice dropping down in tone and volume as he slowed his pace again.

In answer to Cuddy's questioning look, he elaborated: "He called in late last night and said he wouldn't be in today. Actually, he's not going to be in for the rest of the week."

"Oh," she said, stopping and looking suddenly crestfallen. "Is he all right?" she asked.

But before Wilson could begin to answer her, a flash of anger crossed over her face. "Oh, don't bother answering that, of course he's fine. Isn't this _convenient,_" she fumed, tossing her head as she began striding angrily down the sidewalk. "He just happens to take off the three days he's been assigned to extra clinic duty-to make up for all the times he's managed to miss the past six months. And he thought I'd be so busy getting back to work that I wouldn't notice."

Wilson found that, despite the fact she was wearing high heels, he was hard-pressed to keep up with her furious pace.

"Well, he's got his team covering the days these week," he told her as they entered the hospital. "Taub, Kutner and Thirteen are each taking a day apiece and," he added, stopping at a counter to put the box down for a moment, "he's already signed up to cover four hours of clinic three days next week."

He watched as she abruptly stopped, turned, and walked back towards him.

"What's he up to?" she asked, her face a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion.

"I have no idea," said Wilson, shaking his head. "But he's up to something," he agreed, "because there is no way that this is just a coincidence."

They stared at each other, puzzled expressions on their faces as they pondered upon the mystery of House's behavior.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

She turned and a bright smile appeared on her face. "Dr. Smithers!" she called out, cheerfully.

A short and portly middle-aged man dressed in a lab coat was approaching them. His face was flabby and pink, and he had some long grey strands of hair plastered across his shiny forehead.

"Well, don't you look great!" he said.

"Why, thank you, Bob," she replied with just a touch of coquettishness in her tone.

"Of course, we are all thrilled to see you back so soon. But I hope you didn't rush your recovery," he said, wagging a pudgy finger in front of her face. "If you need to take a little more time off-" he began.

"Oh, no, not at all," she told him, moving to link her arm with his. "But, thank you so much for allowing me to have those days off. You know, I was finally able to sit down and give those memos you've been sending me the full attention that they deserve. Your plans for the annual alumni dinner are just wonderful," she enthused.

"Wilson-", she began, looking back towards him.

"I'll set this by your office," he promised, nodding at the box.

"Thanks," she said, returning her attention to Smithers.

Wilson bowed his head to hide his smile as they walked away from him. No one would guess from her current tone of voice and animated expression that Cuddy had once confided to him that she kept one of his infamous memos next to her bed. Reading a single paragraph from a dull and pompous Smithers memorandum was always a sure-fire cure for insomnia.

**X X X X X X X X**

_Monday morning, five days later_

Cuddy pushed back her chair and sighed loudly as she glanced at her office clock. As usual, she had been in to work very early on Monday morning, trying to catch up with the phone messages and emails that had accumulated over the weekend before turning her attention to the current week's agenda. But this morning she had managed to breeze through that work in less than half an hour, and she was running out of things to occupy her time until the clinic opened at eight o'clock.

She certainly didn't want to appear to be anxious to see him, of course. And House was seldom, if ever, on time for his clinic duty shifts (which never kept him from lying about it on the sign-in sheet). Since she herself was not scheduled to see patients today, she could only make a brief appearance there under the pretense she was just doing one of her random checks on the department.

But the truth was, she really had started to miss him and was especially looking forward to spending some time with him in that department. It was the only area of the hospital where she would occasionally allow their flirtation to go beyond bantering words and playful looks. She had explicitly forbidden him to ever touch her if she was in his office (or he in hers), but she was willing to relax that rule whenever they found themselves alone for a few moments in one of the exam rooms.

They had also found that the high counters surrounding the central desk area offered excellent cover for them. If House 'accidentally' brushed his hand across her chest as he reached over to pick up a chart, her buttocks might just happen to bump up against his crotch when she bent down to pick up a paper clip. The jolt of pleasure accompanying these brief moments of contact was immeasurably magnified by the fact that they occurred under the oblivious noses of their colleagues.

She finally decided that, if she walked slowly and stopped for a cup of coffee in the cafeteria while on her way down, she could start walking over to the clinic. She paused to retrieve her labcoat from the coat rack in her office, throwing it over her clothes, but leaving it unbuttoned.

She couldn't bring herself to wear the red suit again so soon after its initial appearance, but she had nonetheless chosen her clothes very carefully this morning. Her tunic top was light pink in color, with a pale blue pattern, and she had been wearing it a number of years ago when there had been a sudden meningitis outbreak at a local school swim meet. After working in the crowded lobby for several hours, screening the participants, it had finally gotten so warm that she had removed her labcoat. House had taken one look at her low-cut top and made remarks regarding 'the produce section of Whole Foods' and whether or not it was appropriate for Deans of Medicine to expose their 'fun bags' to the general populace.

She was striding in the clinic ten minutes later with a coffee cup in her hand, and a slightly fluttery sense of anticipation in her stomach, as she walked over to the main desk.

"Hi, Mary. Has Dr. House managed to make it in yet this morning?" she asked the receptionist, setting down the cup and glancing briefly at the charts sitting in the rack.

"He was here at five to eight," the woman informed her, seemingly shocked herself by the information. "He's already in with a patient," she added, nodding towards Exam Room One.

"Oh," she said, momentarily at a loss for words. "Anything exciting going on today?" she finally managed to ask.

"Nope, the usual," Mary said. "All the sniffles and aches that people have had all weekend long, that are now suddenly making them too sick to go to work," she shrugged.

"Yeah," Cuddy agreed, putting her hands into the pocket of her labcoat. She wondered how much longer she could hang around before her presence attracted unwanted notice.

To her relief, she heard the door of Exam Room One open up behind her.

"Good morning," he said, striding over to stand next to her at the desk.

"My, aren't you the eager beaver this morning?" she commented.

"Dr. Cuddy," he said, clucking his tongue, "have you not been told that it is in poor taste, and possibly litigatious, to use words like that which have sexually suggestive connotations?"

"Is _that _why your picture is on the 'Sexual Harassment' posters in the lobby?"

"And what are _you _doing at the clinic so bright and early on this Monday morning? Already cracking the whip over the heads of your hapless employees?"

Before she could reply, he had thrown a culturette down on the counter and was addressing the receptionist.

"Need that sent to the lab for a Quick Strep," he told Mary.

He turned back to Cuddy and she caught the gleam in his eye as he glanced down at her cleavage and then slowly turned his gaze upward to her face.

"She doesn't really use a whip, of course," he added, turning back to whisper conspiratorially to Mary. "Just a riding crop. But remember that it's one of Mommy and Daddy's 'special toys', like those funny small and long balloons, and you're not allowed to play with it," he added, waggling his eyebrows.

The receptionist, apparently quite used to his sense of humor, just rolled her eyes and picked up the culturette to deliver it to the lab.

Cuddy waited until she was gone to speak.

"So, Dr. House," she began, moving to walk over behind the counter. "We've finally managed to both show up for work again."

"At least I wasn't milking the payroll by sitting at home for two days _pretending_ to be sick," he said, slowly following after her.

"Yeah, I see you took vacation days rather than sick leave," she said. "I wondered what you were doing, and then I heard that there was a big 'Hooker Convention' in town," she teased, as she turned around to face him.

"Well, I was the biggest sponsor of the Princeton branch this year, so I kind of figured I should make an appearance," he said, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter. "They were really sweet, too. They held a lunch in my honor and presented me with a new cane," he informed her.

"Looks the same to me," she said, after studying it a moment.

"Well, I couldn't bring it into work," he said, widening his eyes. "That would be too embarrassing. You see, it's about this big," he said, holding his hands far apart, "and it was modeled after their favorite part of me."

"Your Visa card?" she asked, taking a seat on the desk and taking care to make sure that her labcoat was gaping open.

She saw him glance over at the candy bowl that was sitting on the counter, near her left shoulder.

_That's right. All you have to do is come a little closer and lean over to rummage through the bowl for one of your favorite red lollipops. And you can grab a quick feel with your left hand while you do that_.

"So, how about you?" he asked, eyeing her décolletage for a moment again. "Did you just have _bags of fun_ while you were off?"

"Thank you for remembering," she said, smiling up sweetly at him.

"Hmm, funny," he said, moving slightly closer to her. "I had a good breakfast this morning, but a couple of grapefruit would sure hit the spot right now."

"I saw some in Whole Foods this morning, but I didn't know if they were ripe or not," she said.

"That's why I always give them a little squeeze first," he whispered, bending down slightly.

She smiled and leaned over.

_Here's your chance._

But he suddenly turned around and began heading away from her, walking around to the outside of the desk.

Puzzled, she glanced around to see if he had broken off the game because someone was approaching them. But there appeared to be absolutely no one in the immediate vicinity.

"Gotta get back to work," he said, picking up another chart from the counter. "My boss is an absolute slave driver," he complained.

He took a few steps towards Exam Room Four and then paused and stepped towards the counter, reaching into the middle of the bowl and deftly retrieving a red sucker from the center. With a flick of his wrist, he removed the cellophane wrapper and popped it into his mouth.

"Love your top, by the way," he mumbled around the lollipop. "It's awfully…what's the word I'm looking for?" He frowned thoughtfully, twirling the stick in his mouth. "…discreet," he added with a smile, waggling his eyebrows and making loud sucking noises as he backed into the room.

She remained sitting on the desk, not sure whether she was more amused, angry or disappointed.

_You told him to be on his best behavior._

She frowned and hopped off of the desk, and went to retrieve her coffee cup.

_Yeah, but since when does he listen to you?_

**X X X X X X X X**

F_riday afternoon, four days later_

Wilson stepped back as the elevator doors opened, making way for the departing passengers. The last person out of the car was Cuddy, and it took only a glance at her face for Wilson to discern where she was headed.

"Let me guess," he said, softly, so that he would not be overheard by others. "You're headed for the war zone?"

"Don't worry," she said, her smile brittle and fixed, "the combatants are about to declare an armistice."

"Good luck," he said, stepping back and watching her storm down the hallway.

She had a folder clutched tightly in her right hand, and her arms were swinging determinedly back and forth in rhythm with the swaying motion of her hips as she walked.

"House," he whispered to himself, as he watched her lovely bottom moving back and forth, "you are a very lucky man. And I hope you are wearing your iron-clad boxers today."

She did not even look into House's office as she walked by it, instead directing her steps to the staff room. She pushed the door open and quickly glanced around at the occupants of the room. Thirteen was working on a chart, Taub was reading a medical journal, and Kutner was sitting with his feet up on the table, immersed in a comic book. Foreman was working on a laptop at the end of the table. The three fellows all looked up as she entered the room, with Kutner quickly lowering his feet to the floor, but Foreman's attention remained fixed upon the laptop screen.

"Hi guys," she said, nodding at the three while striding over to the door that led into House's office. "Dr. Foreman," she said, as she pushed the door open, "I would like to see you for a moment in Dr. House's office, to speak to you about the departmental budget for next year?"

"Of course, Dr. Cuddy," he replied, immediately closing the laptop and getting to his feet.

She preceded him into the other room and they both stood silently for a moment, staring at House. He was sitting in his desk chair with his eyes closed, wearing earphones on his head. As if sensing their presence, he slowly opened one eye and stared back at them. Rotating his chair to the side, he reached over to turn up the volume of his music system. He yawned and stretched, and then sat back in the chair with his hands folded in his lap and both eyes closed again.

Cuddy immediately strode over to his side, bent down and flipped the volume to the maximum position.

"Hey!" he cried, jumping up and simultaneously pulling off the earphones. Tilting his head to the side, he put his little finger into one ear and moved it back and forth. "You could seriously damage someone's hearing doing that!" he sulked.

"Tell Bob Smithers about it, his ears are still ringing from your phone call a couple weeks ago," she snapped. She bent over again and this time clicked off the power to the system.

"Please have a seat, Dr. Foreman," she said.

He remained standing for a moment, his arms crossed mutinously in front of him. Then, with a resentful shrug of his shoulders, he seated himself in the chair across the desk from House.

"Gentlemen," began Cuddy, looking back and forth between the two of them, "and I use the term loosely…"

"You're in trouble now," smirked House, moving to replace the headphones on his ears.

"Don't...you…dare," hissed Cuddy, glaring at him.

House dropped his hands away from the head phones. Steepling his fingers, he adopted the beatific expression of a repentant choir boy.

"I am not going to pretend that I don't know why the two of you are suddenly at each others throats," she said, moving to seat herself on the edge of House's desk. "But I am here to tell you both to stop it. Immediately."

House was still looking at her with an innocent look upon his face, Foreman was staring sullenly down at the floor.

"To tell you the truth, I really don't care how miserable you make each other. I don't even care that you make _them_ miserable," she said, gesturing through the glass wall to indicate the three doctors who were studiously trying not to be caught watching what was going on in the office.

"However, I do care when it starts to affect your patients."

Now Foreman was glaring at House, who was in turn looking up at the ceiling, looking quite bored.

"Dr. Foreman," she said, directing her gaze back in his direction. "You told a patient that you were discharging him because he was fine, that Dr. House was simply ordering a bunch of unnecessary tests because he was 'being an ass and jerking you around'. Now, even if the patient had not collapsed and nearly died on his way out of the hospital-"

"Yeah," exclaimed House, "whaddup wit dat?"

"Shut _up_, House," said Cuddy, not even turning around to look at him. "Even if you had been right about the patient's condition and Dr. House's motivation, that would not have justified what you did. If you have a problem with how Dr. House is conducting a case, you do not talk to the patient about it, you come to me."

"Yeah, right," said Foreman, glaring up at her. "Come off it, Cuddy, you could never control him to begin with. You think that, now that the two of you are screwing each other, he's going to suddenly start listening to you?"

A deathly silence fell over the room. Cuddy slowly got to her feet and tossed the folder she had been holding onto the desk.

"Be afraid, be very, very afraid," whispered House, his eyes glimmering with delight.

She bent over and picked up a small memo pad and a pen from his desk. In the silence, the sound of the pen scratching across the surface of the paper could be clearly heard.

"F-I-R-E-D," House murmured, helpfully.

"Here you go," she said, tearing off the top sheet of paper and holding it out to Foreman. "This is the number for the 'Ethics Hotline'. If you truly believe that my relationship with Dr. House is affecting my judgment in this case, it is your duty to report it," she declared.

Foreman stared at the sheet for several seconds, and then, with a barely perceptible movement, shook his head.

"No."

"All right," she said, tossing the sheet, pad and pen onto the desk beside the folder. "I know that you are both at fault here. But, Dr. Foreman, I also believe that you are smart enough to know that there was no way he was _not _going to retaliate when you started to make annoying remarks to him regarding our relationship."

She sat down on the desk again.

"I am going to be out of town all next week, attending the convention in Atlanta," she said. "But I promise you that I will know if there continues to be problems."

"Someone whose name rhymes with _Shmilson _going to be spying on us?" asked House.

"And if these problems continue," began Cuddy. Then she stopped, shook her head and crossed her arms. "I'm sorry, Dr. Foreman, but I will have no choice but to put a formal letter of reprimand into your personnel file. Given your already spotty employment record of the past year, I am sure you would prefer that I not do that."

"Mom always did like me best," boasted House, smiling over at Foreman.

"Of course, since Dr. House already has a couple of _file cabinets_ full of letters of reprimand, that would be no deterrent to him," she said, glancing angrily over her shoulder. "Instead, I have already assigned him extra clinic duty for the next four weeks."

"Hey, that's not fair," House whined, pointing at Foreman, "he started it!"

"And, if he persists in his behavior, he's going to find that his parking space is located in Outer Mongolia," she added.

House opened his mouth to make another protest.

"Shut up, House!" hissed Cuddy, pushing herself off the desk again and reaching down for the folder, "or you will have _no_ parking space and will be taking the bus in to work!"

"Now, on to other business," she said, opening up the folder. "I actually do want to talk to both of you about the budget for next year. I am trying very hard to get a promotion and an increase in salary for Dr. Foreman, so that he can be officially recognized as being 'second-in-command' of this department."

"If you say a word," she threatened, turning back to House, "I will see that he gets his raise by making _you_ take a cut in pay."

House pouted and turned his chair so that he was facing away from them.

"Dr. Foreman, I am doing this because I truly do believe that you deserve this," she said. "However, if you feel I am merely bribing you in order to keep your mouth shut, I again urge you to contact the Ethics Board."

House turned the chair back to face them and leaned on his elbows against the desk. "How much money would it take for you to keep your mouth shut?" he asked Foreman, wonderingly. "Might be cheaper in the long run," he whispered to Cuddy, out of the side of his mouth.

"Shut up, House," said Foreman, rising to his feet. "Thank you, Dr. Cuddy. I apologize for my earlier outburst and for letting this situation get out of hand. It won't happen again."

"Apology accepted, Dr. Foreman," she said, the corners of her mouth relaxing into the hint of a smile.

"Aaah," said House, standing up as well. "Group hug?" he asked tearfully, holding out his arms.

Cuddy and Foreman both turned to glare at him.

"Unfortunately, I also need to speak to Dr. House alone for a moment," she said, looking back at Foreman.

"Of course," he said, moving towards the door. "Have a good weekend," he said, as he walked into the other room, "and enjoy your time in Atlanta."

Cuddy turned to look at House, who had sat back down in his chair and was peering around her, watching until the door had fully closed behind Foreman.

"Nice move," he said, as she went to sit down in the chair that Foreman had just vacated. "Pretending to give me extra clinic duty so he would feel better."

"You're an ass," she said, tiredly, crossing her legs and placing the folder across her lap. "And you're going to be covering Monday mornings in the clinic for the next month," she added.

"Wasn't three times this week enough?" he protested, starting to pout again. "I was even early for my shift on Monday."

"Uh-huh. Of course, you also left early all three days and were late showing up on the other two."

"Not according to the sign-in sheet."

"No, but that's what happened according to Mary," she replied. "And she is a much more accurate source of information for me."

"One of those wasn't my fault," he assured her. "I had to go help resuscitate my patient when he collapsed in the entryway. You know, it's kind of bad for the hospital's image to have patients coming in and having to step over the dead bodies of the people Foreman's mistakenly discharged."

"Yeah, and on the other hand it really burnishes our image to have them hear two doctors calling each other names over the guy's body as they're working on him. 'Lazy megalomaniacal bastard' and 'arrogant son-of-a-bitch asshole' were the two I heard."

"Oh, those are just our 'friendly nicknames' for each other. Like when I call you my-"

"I've heard what you call me," she said, raising her finger in warning. "Believe me, House, _everyone_ snitches on you about that."

"Of course, it's not quite as much fun to call you that, now that I'm actually getting to play with your squish mitten," he frowned.

He turned his head to the side to look through the glass into the staff room.

"You sure it's a good idea to reward Foreman right now?" he asked. "The next thing you know, the rest of my team will start shoving patients directly out the windows, figuring that's the way to get a promotion."

"I'll take my chances. With any luck, they'll be smart enough to push _you_ down a stairwell or elevator shaft while they're at it."

"Hmm, maybe for my own safety you should take me with you to Atlanta?" he asked. "That way, you could make sure that Foreman and I aren't fighting next week."

"Right," she said, rolling her eyes.

"We could bunk together, since you already have the room."

"The idea is to punish you, not me, House," she said, reaching up to massage her neck.

"Oh, and that's right, you're probably not going to be alone anyway," said House, frowning. "Isn't your Aunt Mabel due for a visit next week?"

She smiled at the sound of his favorite euphemism for her menstrual period.

"Yes, she is," she replied.

"Bummer that she's going to be there, ruining your fun," he said, shaking his head. "I guess you won't be wearing that white string bikini in the hotel pool," he added, looking disappointed.

"I don't have a white string bikini," she sputtered.

"Well, maybe you could wear this instead," he said, reaching into one of the desk drawers and pulling out a box. Leaning over, he pushed it to the other side of the desk.

Her forehead wrinkled in a puzzled frown, she reached over to pick it up. To her shock, she saw that it was a small, rectangular box with the name of one of Princeton's most expensive jewelers embossed across the top. She looked back up at House, trying but failing to read the expression on his face. She could not imagine House buying her any kind of jewelry, let alone something expensive.

"What in the world?" she began, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching as she opened the box. A moment later, she was trying to stifle her laughter as she stared down at the contents.

Carefully arranged against the black velvet interior were a small cork and a large rubber band upon which were pasted two Vicodin tablets.

"Hey, it was your suggestion," said House, his own mouth breaking into a wide grin as she turned the box over to dump the items into her palm.

"No, I suggested a string," she said, looping the rubber band around both her hands and pulling it taut.

"Has a little more give this way," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll be wearing this into the hotel pool either," she said, replacing the items in the box and pushing it back towards him.

"Guess I'll just have to put it next to the jungle jockey shorts," he said, taking the box and putting it into his pocket. "I look forward to seeing you in either," he added, as she rose from the chair.

"I'll bet you do," she said, throwing him a smile over her shoulder as she walked to the door.

"Of course, you'll let me know if the old girl ends up being a 'no show', won't you?" he asked. "Because if she doesn't come for her visit, I guess that from now on I'm going to have to depend upon my imagination."

"Yes, Dr. House," she said, opening the door and stepping out into the hallway. "I'll let you know if we need to reschedule that tentative meeting."

He watched her disappear down the hallway and then moved to replace the headphones over his ears. Turning the volume down, he switched the power back on and settled back in his chair, closing his eyes. After a few minutes, he sighed and opened his eyes, putting his hand into his pocket and retrieving the jewelry box. Opening it up, he took out the rubber band and bit off one of the pills. Swallowing the medicine, he tossed the box onto the shelf and raised his feet up to the desk, a very smug and contented smile appearing upon his face.

X X X X X X X X

_Monday morning, ten days later_

Since she had been gone for the week, it had taken her the better part of the morning to catch up on her work this Monday, despite coming in early as usual. She was just finishing up a stack of papers requiring her signature when House came waltzing into her office and seated himself on her couch.

She frowned and consulted her watch.

"It's eleven fifty-five," she said, glaring over at him.

"Are we synchronizing watches?" he asked, looking down at his own wrist.

"You are supposed to be covering in clinic until noon," she informed him, signing the last page and putting down her pen.

"Hey, if I had stayed to see another patient I might have ended up not being able to leave until five minutes _after_ noon," he informed her.

"And since you are here in my office now, you probably actually left the clinic at eleven forty-five, which means you would have had plenty of time for that ten-minute patient," she argued back to him.

"Two weeks ago I was five minutes early checking in," he reminded her.

"That makes up for leaving fifteen minutes early today?"

"Sure," he said, looking surprised that she would even ask. "Because arriving early is three times more responsible than leaving early." He tapped his cane impatiently against the floor. "Now, can we possibly move on to a slightly more interesting topic?"

"What would that be?" she murmured, reaching over to pull a fresh stack of paperwork in front of her.

"Whether or not Aunt Mabel put in an appearance last week," he said, leaning over to prop his chin on the cane handle.

"You have never asked me that before, House," she said, smiling in bemusement as she continued to leaf through the stack.

"Because when you're here, I don't need to ask," he said. "When you're wearing extra perfume, chowing down on salty snacks and making extra trips to the bathroom, it really isn't a mystery."

"Why didn't you just bribe the hotel staff to check my trash?" she asked, sitting back in her chair and scowling at him.

"I've memorized enough Spanish to request a number of kinky sexual favors, but asking someone to count tampon wrappers is beyond my repertoire, unfortunately," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders.

She propped her elbows up on the arms of the chair and smiled at him.

"I normally wouldn't pressure you like this," he said, sitting back and twirling his cane, "but I got called by a couple of hookers this morning, wondering if I could help them meet their monthly quota. They were wondering if they could pencil me into their schedule for next week, so-"

They were interrupted by the ringing of her telephone.

"Hold that thought," she told him, picking up the receiver while continuing to look at him.

"Lisa Cuddy," she answered, listening for a few seconds. "Oh, hi, Bob," she said, grimacing and rolling her eyes at House, who in turn sighed loudly and threw himself back against the couch cushions in disgust. "I got back late Saturday. Really good conference, yes."

She listened and nodded.

"Why do people nod when they're on the telephone?" House wondered, loudly. "It's not like the other person can see you."

"Yes, Bob, that's Dr. House you're hearing," she said. "Uh-huh, he's real interested in the conference also," she said.

Looking extremely annoyed, House rose to his feet and began to walk out of the room.

"House," she said, placing her hand over the receiver, "hold on a minute." Removing her hand, she spoke back into the telephone. "Hey, Bob, I really hate to do this to you, but I'm going to have to miss the board meeting next week. Well, I'm really sorry, especially because I missed the last one, too, but something important has come up."

House had stopped and turned back to look at her, his eyebrows raised with interest.

"I got a visit from an aunt of mine while I was in Atlanta last week," she told him, "and there's some urgent family business I need to attend to next Monday evening. Oh, thanks for understanding, talk to you later, Bob," she said, hanging up the phone.

"So," she said, picking up the pen, "does that answer your question?"

"Yep," he said, starting to walk back towards the door.

"You looked rather happy about the news," she observed, chewing on the end of the pen.

"Hey," he said, opening the door, "as much as I'd love to help out the hookers, it's really great that I'm going to be getting another month of free sex. I may even be able to pay off my Visa balance before going back to the 'working girls'."

He smiled and walked out looking once more exceptionally pleased with himself.

She frowned and continued to gnaw on the pen as she watched him go through the outer doors and finally disappear from sight around the corner. Just as he did, her phone began to ring again. Glancing at the caller ID, she smiled and reached over to answer it.

"Hi, Wilson," she said, throwing the pen back down upon the desk.

"So, I get to be myself this time?" he asked.

"Yeah, House is gone," she replied. "Thanks for 'being Bob' for me."

"Anytime, I think. What's going on with you two?"

"Oh, nothing really. He was just more interested than usual in my fertility this month, and I figured the easiest way to get him out of the office was to pretend I was talking to Smithers."

She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. "And I'm really glad you called back, Wilson, because I do have a big favor to ask you," she said, opening her eyes.

"What do you need?" asked Wilson, starting to sound a little hesitant.

"Could _you_ possibly call Smithers for me and tell him that I won't be at the board meeting next week?" she asked. "Give him the spiel about my having 'family business' to attend to."

"Which I take it, is not exactly a lie?"

"No, not at all," she said, shaking her head. "But if I call him, he's going to want to bend my ear for at least an hour talking about all the memos he sent while I was gone last week."

Wilson laughed. "All right, but you _owe_ me one."

"Add it to the list," she said, laughing. "Thanks again, Wilson."

"Talk to you later, Cuddy."

X X X X X X X X

_Monday morning, seven days later_

It was another Monday and she was once again early in arriving to the hospital. This time, however, there was no bounce in her step as she walked down the sidewalk towards the entrance, only a weary determination. She was dressed professionally, in a particularly somber, tailored suit, and she carried a briefcase in her hands.

She paused for a moment before entering the lobby. Looking up at the rapidly darkening sky, she wondered if she should return to her car and retrieve her umbrella in case she needed it later in the day. After a moment of indecision, she shook her head and proceeded through the door into the hospital.

Not stopping, as was her habit, to pick up a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, she instead went directly to the elevator and pressed the 'Up' button. When the doors opened, she stepped back as several people departed the car. One of them, a nurse she recognized from ICU, paused to speak to her.

"Have you heard?" said the woman.

Cuddy nodded. "I got a phone call from Taub on the way in. Is Clay still doing okay?"

The nurse nodded. "Yeah, he's holding his own. You going there now?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Cuddy, stepping into the car and punching the button for the floor.

The doors closed and she leaned against the rail, her briefcase in both hands in front of her as the elevator moved upward.

There was no need to stop at her office. She had last been there at eight-thirty yesterday evening, attending to her email box and voice mail. After she finished checking in on the patients in the ICU, she would be making her way towards House's department.

For a department that was often envied for having absolutely no patients to care for, the past week had been particularly hellish. An hour and a half after House had left her office that previous Monday morning, he had found himself with the first of three cases that were going to keep him busy for the next week, and confirm his inherent cynicism regarding the infinite capacity of human beings to inflict pain upon one another.

The first case had been on Monday, the patient a ten-year-old boy presenting with a wide variety of neurological symptoms. It took House and his team only a few hours to come up with the diagnosis of tertiary syphilis. But, as of Friday afternoon, the Health and Social Welfare Departments had still been attempting to determine which of the boy's 'loving' circle of family and caregivers had been the one to be sexually abusing him as a toddler.

.

The second case had been brought to them on Tuesday by Wilson, when the woman who was the prospective bone marrow donor for one of his patients had suddenly begun manifesting a bizarre array of physical complaints. Since the intended recipient, the donor's sister, had just received full body irradiation in preparation for the transplant, it was imperative that they try to resolve the donor's symptoms as soon as possible so that the operation could proceed before the recipient succumbed to a fatal infection.

The team could not seem to find a unifying cause that would account for the woman's symptoms. After two days, it had occurred to House that the explanation was that the donor was dosing herself with a variety of over-the-counter medications and household cleansing agents. Upon being confronted by House, the woman readily admitted that his suspicions were true. In fact, she cold-bloodedly admitted that she had acted out of spite, and that her deliberate intention had been to cause the death of her weakened sibling. Far from feeling a sense of remorse for her actions, she calmly told him that it really didn't matter that he had discovered the plan in time for her to still make the donation; she was now rescinding her consent for the procedure. With no other family members available to donate in her place, Wilson had been forced to use a partially-matched registry donor for the transplant. House's gloomy prognosis was that the recipient had been given a brief reprieve, but was most probably doomed to die a long, lingering and painful death from graft-versus-host disease.

On Thursday, House had been eating lunch in Wilson's office (well, actually, he was eating _Wilson's _lunch) when his beeper had suddenly gone off. He had glanced at the number, identified it as one of the ER extensions, and had nonchalantly returned to wolfing down the tuna-fish sandwich, determined to finish it before Wilson returned to his office. A second alarm had gone off a few seconds later. This time House had looked down to see the message 'POSSIBLE MACHUPO' written across the display screen. In less than three minutes, he had somehow managed to make it down to the Emergency Room, where Cameron was already implementing Biosafety Level Four precautions.

Although he agreed with Cameron's initial assessment that the family's display of petechiae and profuse bleeding from the nose and gums was especially alarming due to the fact that their house guest, who was also ill, had recently come from an area where Bolivian Hemorrhagic Fever was endemic, it was not long before he was questioning the diagnosis. The friend and the mother were making a remarkably swift recovery, while the husband, fourteen-year-old daughter, ten-year-old son, and eight-month-old twin boys were rapidly moving towards irreversible liver and kidney failure.

A search of the home had revealed the presence of a poisonous Bolivian plant. The house guest, a friend of the husband's since college, tearfully proclaimed that he had mistaken it for an herb, and had in fact poisoned himself along with the rest of the family by using it to season the special dish he had prepared the night before. An investigation of the family's trash, however, yielded a receipt showing that the man had bought two large bottles of Ipecac earlier the previous morning. Once the empty bottles of the emetic were found as well, it was apparent to House that the guest and the wife had somehow had the foresight to make themselves throw up immediately after ingesting the poisonous meal.

It took surprisingly little probing to make both the wife and friend reveal that they were having an affair. The fact that the husband was in possession of a considerable fortune made it obvious that they had decided killing the family off was a much more convenient and profitable solution to their predicament than the wife simply running off with her lover.

Even with the administration of the proper antidote, however, the other family members continued to become weaker and sicker. The team protested that it had simply taken too much time to start the proper treatment, but House insisted that there had to be another underlying factor to explain the lack of response to the medicine. Finally, after going into the husband's room himself, and ripping off the layers of biosafety precautions in order to shout directly into the patient's ear, he had finally been able to elicit a more detailed family history from the barely-conscious man.

Having discovered that the man's mother had died of post-childbirth hemorrhage, he instructed the team to begin testing the family for genetic coagulation disorders. The testing finally revealed that the father and his children were all suffering from a rare form of von Willebrand's disease. With the family members continuing to pour out blood as fast as it could be pumped in, House prescribed heavy doses of a combination of experimental drugs. Although the family hovered near death for the next twelve hours, it finally appeared that the medication had started to work.

Unfortunately, for one of the eight-month-old twins, the one named Carter, the treatment had not been quick enough to prevent his death from liver failure. She took in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders as she waited for the elevator doors to open. Stepping out of the car, she headed over to the Intensive Care Unit.

A half-hour later, Cuddy was walking into the staff room of the Diagnostic Medicine Department. Kutner was sitting in a chair, his head propped wearily in the palm of his hand. Taub was in the chair across the table from him, his eyes fixed upon the white board as he read the symptoms written upon it over and over, as if trying convince himself that there was something more that could have been done to diagnose and treat the family sooner.

"Tough week, guys," she said, moving over to squeeze Kutner's shoulder. "Have you heard from Foreman and Thirteen?" she asked, addressing this to Taub.

By yesterday evening, when it was apparent that there was little to do but sit back and hope that the treatment would work, House had told Foreman and Thirteen to go home and get some rest. That way, they could be back at work this morning to relieve Taub and Kutner.

Taub nodded, his eyes still on the board. "They're on their way in. I gave them the news."

"As long as Dr. Foreman clears it, the two of you should head on home after they get here," she advised.

"What about House?" asked Kutner, looking at her with bleary eyes.

"I'm going to tell him to go home, too," she said, walking towards his office.

She paused and peered through the glass. He was sitting with his legs crossed and propped on top of his overturned garbage can. There were pieces of paper and other trash scattered around the floor, indicating he had not cared that the can had not been empty when he decided to use it as a footrest. His cane was propped sideways on his lap, and although his head was lowered toward his chest and his eyes appeared to be closed, she knew he was not sleeping. When she knocked on the door he did not jump or start but merely raised his head slowly and turned to look in her direction. As she entered the room, she fancied that she saw a small spark of gratefulness in his tired blue eyes as he watched her approach, as if he were relieved that it was she, rather than one of his team, walking into the room.

"Do you want some coffee?" she asked, quietly, as she set down the briefcase and sat in the chair across from his desk.

"No," he said, shaking his head and raising a hand to scratch his chin. The stubble by this time was thick enough in some areas as to begin forming curly patches of brown and grey. "You just do the tour?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "The father's doing fine-" She stopped for a moment, wanting to add that, of course, the improvement in his physical condition was more than balanced by the shock and grief he was experiencing. How fine could you be when you had to deal with the fact your wife had poisoned you and your kids, and that she had succeeded in killing one of them?

House stared down at his cane, but did not say anything to fill in the gap left by her sudden hesitation.

"Clay's BUN and creatinine are way down, and the transaminases are falling," she finally said. "The other kids are doing better, too. Lily is asking for something other than a clear liquid diet and they're having trouble keeping Tyler in bed."

"They know about their brother?" he asked, moving his head back and forth to work out the kinks in his neck.

"No," she said. "We're waiting for them to ask, and when they do we're going to have counselors in there with them while they are told. They think it's best that their father is there to comfort them, but not to _tell _them anything, not just now."

He nodded again. "Autopsy?" he asked, taking his feet off of the garbage can as he began twirling his cane in his right hand.

She sighed. "The CDC is still insisting that they remove the body and perform the autopsy under Level 4 precautions," she said.

"Idiots," he said, suddenly pivoting his chair so that he could turn to sit at his desk. "It's obviously not Machupo, or three quarters of the hospital patients would have blood pouring out from every orifice by now," he groused, setting the cane down on his desk.

"I know that, and you know that," she said, smiling at him. "I think even the CDC officials know that, but they are still going to go through the recommended procedures."

There was another long silence.

"Foreman should be here soon," she said, breaking the stillness after several minutes. "Why don't you head on home?"

He turned to glare at her.

"I can't," he informed her, "I'm due in clinic in ten minutes."

"Oh," she said, laughing softly, "no, you aren't. Wang is going to fill in for you this morning."

"And you only just now remembered to tell me that?" he asked, sounding more than slightly miffed.

"He just returned my call a couple of minutes ago," she explained.

House narrowed his eyes.

"And if he wasn't able to cover it for you, I would have done it myself," she assured him, standing up and leaning over the desk.

"Go on, _Superdoc_," she teased, as she winked and stroked her hand gently over his, "go home and get some sleep."

She turned and began to walk to the door.

"Hmm," she heard him murmur behind her.

She looked back and saw that he was holding a desk calendar in his hands. There were large red arrows drawn across it, all pointing to the current date. Cuddy bent down to examine it more closely and saw that there was nothing written inside the square to indicate what occasion was being marked.

"Would you possibly have an ulterior motive for urging me to go home and get some sleep?" he asked, screwing up his mouth as he pointed at the calendar. "Seems to me I'm supposed to be doing something tonight, but I just can't remember what it is," he said, scratching his head as he put the calendar back down on the desk.

"You know, it's a funny thing," she admitted, her puzzled tone a match for his own as she sat down in the chair again. "I seem to have forgotten something myself. For the life of me, I can't remember why I'm carrying this around," she said, taking something out of the pocket of her jacket.

With a grin, she set an unopened box containing a new toothbrush down on the desk.

"Still got a spot open for this?" she asked.

"I think we can squeeze it in," he allowed, after studying it for a moment.

"Could we please put it next to the _oral _thermometer?" she begged.

"You're awfully squeamish for a doctor," he grumbled. "But, if you insist…" he shrugged.

"So, we're on for tonight," she said, standing up and retrieving the toothbrush from his desk. "Unless you're just too exhausted," she added, looking at him with concern.

He shook his head, but Cuddy suddenly sensed that he was avoiding looking her in the eye.

"I'm never too tired for that," he assured her.

"Glad to hear it," she said, putting the toothbrush back in her pocket.

He was intently studying the surface of his desk.

"Something else?" she asked, taking a step back towards him.

"You're welcome to come tonight," he said, finally looking back up at her. "I already have wine chilling in the refrigerator and I even have fresh sheets on the bed," he said.

"Ooh, I'm getting the royal treatment tonight," she laughed. "Only fitting since I guess I'm supposed to be portraying 'Sheena, Queen of the Jungle'?" she teased. "I assume you still have the lingerie?"

He smiled for just a moment before once again directing his gaze towards the desk, avoiding looking her in the eyes.

"I'm just not sure that you will want to come tonight after you read this," he said, reaching down and pulling out the middle drawer.

He threw a piece of 8 ½ by 11 paper, folded into quarters, onto the desk.

"What's this?" she asked, bending down to pick it up.

"Some lab results that you might want to take a look at," he advised her, raising his eyebrows and looking slightly guilty as he sat back in his chair.

She slowly sat down, trying to decide if he was being serious or if he was just about to play another one of his elaborate jokes.

"Well," she said, frowning for a moment, "I know you attended that 'Hooker Convention' a couple of weeks ago, but I assume you took a couple extra doses of penicillin."

He shook his head. "Not an STD."

She began opening the paper, stopping after a moment and leaving it folded in half.

"If this is a psychological profile, I already know you're insane," she quipped.

"Maybe more than you know," she heard him murmur.

She opened the paper up completely, but took just a quick glance at the top of the page before tossing it back at him.

"House!" she sputtered, shaking her head, "you really had me going there for a moment. All this fuss just to show me your stupid semen analysis again! Yes, you are an _amazingly_ fertile man!" she exclaimed, pushing the chair back as she got to her feet.

He brought the end of his cane down upon the paper and slid it back to her side of the desk.

"Look at it again," he said, his voice strangely quiet.

She bent down and retrieved the paper. Smoothing it out, she glanced over the top of the page at him and then looked back down at the report.

_House, Gregory_

_Semen Analysis._

_Type: Post-Vasectomy_

_Sperm Count: None seen_

_Conclusion: Successful vasectomy, no further contraception precautions necessary_

She studied the page for several moments, bringing the page close to her eyes, double-checking the date of birth to make sure it matched. According to the report, the sample had been collected and the test performed the previous Tuesday.

Finding that her legs were suddenly feeling a little shaky, she lowered herself into the chair and took in a deep breath. She read the report through several more times and then began to slowly fold it back into quarters, taking care to carefully and mechanically crease the folds with her thumb and forefinger.

"So," she said, finally, as she set the paper back down on the desk. "When did you have this done?"

"The surgery?" he asked.

Looking at a space somewhere above and to the right of his face, she nodded.

"Remember those days I took off about a month ago?" he asked.

She nodded again.

"I had it done then," he said.

She considered this for several minutes and then turned to gaze directly into his face.

"I see," she said, shortly.

"Pretty simple procedure," he assured her, raising his hand and making a scissoring motion with his fingers, "but I needed to take some time to recover."

"I guess so," she shrugged, slowing rising to her feet again, and picking up the briefcase she had set on the floor.

"That's it?" he asked, incredulously, leaning forward to pick up the folded lab report. "That's the only question you're going to ask me: _when _I had it done?"

"Oh, I know you must be just dying to tell me why you had it done," she hissed, her eyes suddenly gleaming with anger. "But, somehow, I'm not exactly in the mood to talk to you right now. In fact, House," she said, leaning over the desk, "don't expect me to be talking to you unless it's absolutely necessary for the next year or so."

He leaned back and scratched his beard again, clearing his throat. "Does that mean you won't be coming over to visit me tonight?"

"Amazing deduction, Dr. House. Or was that just another one of your incredibly lucky hunches?"

She turned away from him.

"Shame to let a good ovulation go to waste," he called after her. "You know Wilson should be arriving in his office any minute now. You might just persuade him to step in and-"

"Don't you dare!" she warned, pivoting back towards him and crossing her arms over her chest as she fought back her tears. "Don't you dare make a joke right now."

He bit his lip and looked away, his left hand rapidly clenching and unclenching as he suddenly appeared very ill-at-ease.

She took in a few quick, pain-filled breaths and then, incredibly, she began to laugh.

The sound of her laughter caused him to raise his eyes back to her face.

"Cuddy?" he asked, sounding concerned at the touch of hysteria in her tone.

He moved to brace his hands against the arms of his desk chair.

"Oh, no," she warned him, pointing her finger in his direction, "do _not _get out of that chair. Not unless you really want me to show you just how hard I can kick you, House."

He took one look at the sharply pointed toes of her shoes and slunk back into his chair.

"Don't worry," she told him, turning away and walking towards the door. "I'm not having a breakdown, it's just that this whole situation is so unbelievably funny," she assured him, smiling and shaking her head.

"Whatever reasons you had for having that little 'out-patient procedure' done, I'm afraid they don't really matter now," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Case of the barn door being shut long after the horse has already bolted, House. You were a little late in shutting off that supply of 'fresh, never-frozen sperm."

"What?" he asked, sitting up in his chair as the meaning of her words hit him.

"Remember how I told you that I wouldn't do a pregnancy test until I was absolutely sure that I had missed my period? Last Monday, when you came into my office, I had just been about to step into the bathroom and do the test. I had waited until I was driving in to work that morning to stop at the store to buy a pregnancy kit, because I was finally sure that I had waited long enough."

"So I lied to you," she admitted. "Well, that's not really true," she said, wrinkling her forehead. "I didn't really lie to you, I just let you overhear me lie to someone else," she qualified. "Because, you see, no matter what the test results were, I really did want to come visit you again tonight, but I wasn't sure yet if we would be meeting to procreate or to celebrate."

She shrugged her shoulders again. "Stupid me, I thought you'd be happy to hear that we finally managed to get me pregnant."

She opened the door and strode out of the office.

House remained seated at his desk, staring at the door long after it had closed behind her.


	7. My Melancholy Baby

Chapter 07: My Melancholy Baby

**Chapter 07: My Melancholy Baby**

Cuddy was sitting in one of her office chairs, a folder propped open against her lap, when she heard a soft knock. She turned and saw Wilson opening the door.

"Hey," he said, leaning against the handle and looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face. "You still here?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "No point in going home now, the board meeting is due to start in less than fifteen minutes."

He looked even more perplexed. "I thought you weren't going to the meeting tonight?"

She tossed the folder onto the table in front of her. "Change of plans," she said, shortly.

"So, I wasted all that time talking to Bob Smithers-or, rather-_listening _to Bob Smithers, giving him your excuse for not being there tonight, and it was all for nothing?" he asked, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.

"Sorry," she said, smiling apologetically, "when I asked you to do that last week, I really expected not to be here tonight," she explained.

He stopped in front of her, pushing back his labcoat so that he could thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed down into her face.

"You've been crying," he said, softly.

She sighed and laughed shortly. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, leaning back and reaching up to brush the hair away from her face.

"Well, you probably might like to fix your makeup before you go to the board meeting," he said, gently. "But it was mainly the fact that you were sitting with your back towards the door that initially made me suspicious," he admitted.

She smiled ruefully and shrugged her shoulders again as he sat down in the chair next to hers.

"I only know of one person who makes you cry," he said. He picked up the tissue box that was sitting in the table in front of him and held it out to her.

She took one of the tissues, and blew her nose. "Yep," she admitted.

"You want to tell me what he did-or said-this time?" he asked.

She shook her head and pulled another tissue out of the box to wipe her eyes.

"All right, I won't pry," he said, putting the box back down on the table.

"You're not prying, Wilson," she said.

They looked at each other and smiled.

"Okay, maybe you are, but it's not that I mind. It's just that I'm not ready to talk about it, not quite yet," she said, balling up the tissues and throwing them into the nearby trash can.

"Well, if it's any consolation to you, neither is House," he said, raising his eyebrows.

She looked at him quizzically.

"He was sitting in my office when I came in today," began Wilson. "My supposedly locked office, of course."

"Of course," she said, rolling her eyes.

"So, I said: 'What's up?'. And he just sat there, and went-"

He opened his mouth and left it gape open for several seconds, closed it without saying anything, turned his head slightly to the side, and repeated the action.

"He did that for about five times, actually, before he finally just got up and left," Wilson said, raising his hands. "I'm sorry that he made you cry," he said, shaking his head, "but I have to tell you that I've never seen anyone leave House speechless before," he teased.

She managed a wan smile.

"I think I managed to throw a monkey wrench into his 'master plan'," she admitted, propping her elbow on the chair and leaning her head tiredly against her palm.

"You finally figured out what he's been up to this month?" asked Wilson.

"Not exactly, but I at least have a better idea than I did before I talked to him this morning."

"Okay," he said, rising to his feet, "just let me know if you ever get to the point of wanting to talk to _me_ about it. I'll be here."

"You always are," she said, putting out her hand to him as she smiled.

He helped her to her feet. "Go freshen up. I'll wait and we can walk up to the meeting together," he told her.

"All right," she said, striding over to retrieve her purse from her desk.

"But, I gotta tell you," he said, crossing his arms. "If there are only two seats left by the time we get up there and one of them is next to Bob-"

Cuddy laughed. "Don't worry, I'll sit next to him. I won't make you run interference for me again tonight."

It was over two hours later before they finally finished with the meeting. The planned agenda had already been lengthy enough, but a discussion regarding House's latest case had added at least an hour onto the proceedings. A few of the board members had expressed their dissatisfaction with Cameron's decision to initiate the heightened biosafety precautions. But the rest of the board had firmly supported her, arguing that it was far better to have assumed the worst rather than hesitating and allowing a potentially deadly epidemic to hit the city.

There was also much discussion devoted to House's investigation of the case and the fact that he had ended up treating the family with a combination of drugs that could have potentially worsened rather than alleviated their illness. Board members were again divided between those who thought he had once again proved his incalculable value to the hospital, while others murmured that one of these days his luck was going to run out, and he would end up doing something that would damage the facility's reputation beyond repair.

Cuddy was glad when the conversation finally turned to how the hospital was dealing with the intense media scrutiny regarding the unusual case, and she was happy to report that the hospital's Public Relations department had the situation well in hand. The absolute minimum amount of information regarding the case was being released with the maximum amount of politeness, and any potential 'leaks' to the media were being firmly plugged as they were found.

"That always surprises me," Bob Smithers noted. "House is the most arrogant jerk you could ever meet," he sputtered, as the board nodded its assent, "but you won't find him pontificating in front of the cameras, seeking publicity in cases like this," he admitted.

"House doesn't want fame, he wants to solve puzzles," Wilson said. "That's what gives him a high."

"That and the Vicodin," someone said, sotto voice.

Laughter filled the boardroom for a moment.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Cuddy said, folding her hands in front of her. "I guess I am once more vindicated in my choice to hire and retain Dr. House as an employee. Despite his _numerous_ deficiencies as regards his character and personality-"

She hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged. "-the son-of-a-bitch still manages to be one of the best doctors I've ever known."

She shared Wilson's umbrella as they walked out to their cars. It had been overcast and dreary for most of the day, but by nightfall there were thunder storms rolling through the area. He gave her another quick smile as she slid into the seat, waiting until she had backed out of her space before waving goodbye and hurrying over to his own car.

The rain continued to intensify, and she had to keep her wipers going at full force as she drove through the water-filled streets.

Stopping at a small strip mall near her house, she dashed into the video store to return some overdue DVDs that she had been carrying around in her purse for almost a week. As she came out of the store, she caught a tantalizing whiff of the aroma emanating from the Chinese restaurant located a few doorways down in the mall. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She had not been hungry all day, a small salad had sufficed for lunch and she had merely picked at the chicken sandwich that she had brought to the board meeting. But now, her growling stomach suddenly demanded something more filling, something more _comforting,_ she admitted to herself as she made her way down the wet sidewalk to the restaurant doorway.

The elderly oriental lady at the counter smiled at her as she approached.

"Table or take out?" she asked, in heavily accented English.

"To go," said Cuddy, unfolding one of the paper menus and perusing it. "An order of fried wontons, and one-no make that two-spring rolls, please," she said.

"That all?" the woman asked, writing down the order.

"Yes, no-" she said, as her stomach grumbled again. "Add an order of Kung Pao Chicken and Moo Shu Vegetables too, please,"

About twenty minutes later, she was opening the door to her house, her right leg propping it open as she held her cell phone to her ear with one hand while carrying her purse and the bag full of Chinese food in the other. She continued to talk as she turned around and slid the deadbolt into place.

The phone had rung just as she was getting out of her car, and she was now in the midst of helping to arrange for a last-minute transplant. The intended recipient in Philadelphia had died while the donor heart was on route. Princeton-Plainsboro was the nearest hospital with a suitably-matched recipient, but even they were going to be hard-pressed to rush the patient in and arrange for the transplant before the organ was too old to be used. She had told her transplant team to go ahead and call the patient in. Meanwhile, she would be making the necessary arrangements to have the heart delivered by helicopter to the hospital, and would also make sure that there was an operating suite available. She ended the call, dumped her purse and the bag on her kitchen counter, and swiftly dialed another number.

She managed to fill a teapot with hot tap-water and put a kettle filled with cold water on to boil as she juggled the phone through half a dozen more phone calls. She had just finalized the arrangements, and was beginning to pour the boiling water into the pot, when her phone rang again.

This time, it was the ER calling to inform her of another critical case. A man with a burst abdominal aneurysm had been admitted, and she was going to have to make sure that another surgical team, operating room, and immense amounts of blood products were available as well. By the time she had finished arranging staffing and resources for this latest catastrophe, her tea was cold and over-steeped. Throwing the dark liquid down the drain, she began all over again.

This time, as the kettle was heating, she walked to her bedroom and wearily peeled off her clothes, returning to the kitchen dressed in one of her warm and worn flannel robes and a pair of flip-flop slippers. She fielded one more phone call, this one from a local newspaper regarding the poisoning case, and then began to unwrap the by now thoroughly cold Chinese food. Removing the little metal carrying hooks from the containers, she put them into the microwave and poured out a cup of hot, perfectly brewed tea and added two generous spoonfuls of sugar while the food was heating. Digging a pair of chopsticks out of the drawer, she took the cartons out of the microwave and piled them onto a tray, along with the packets of condiments and her cup of tea and a plate. Lifting it up, she walked down the hallway to her living room. Using her elbow to flip on the light, she put the tray down on top of her coffee table. Flipping off her slippers, she settled down on the couch.

She had just reached down to pick up her cup, however, when her cell phone, which she had thrown into the pocket of her robe, began to ring again. She wearily dug it out of her pocket, flipped it open and then groaned out loud as she read the name displayed on the screen.

'_House, G.'_ it announced.

She stared down at it as it continued to ring. She supposed there might be a chance that he was calling her regarding either his last case or a new one, but her gut instinct told her it had nothing to do with work. Placing the phone down next to the tray, she picked up the cup and took a sip as she silently counted the rings. They finally ceased, and she vowed to eat at least one wonton before she checked her voice mail to see if he had left a message. Just as she reached out to pick up the morsel, however, the phone once more began to ring. A quick glance at the screen confirmed that the call was coming from House again.

She sat back with the wonton in one hand and the cup of tea in the other, alternatively crunching and sipping as she waited for the ringing to stop. As before, it stopped only to resume again after a brief pause of a few seconds. This went on for several minutes, and she had eaten two wontons by the time it began to ring for a sixth time. Pausing to lick the crumbs off of her fingers, she sighed and reached down to pick up the phone.

"This had better be about work," she snarled.

"I'm in the neighborhood," he informed her, sounding absolutely unruffled by the anger in her voice. "Can I stop in?"

"No, you can't," she informed him, shortly.

"Why not?"

_Because I don't want to see you, you bastard._

But she managed to control herself. Raising a hand to her forehead, she instead replied, "Because I'm already in bed, House. Whatever you want to talk about will just have to wait until tomorrow."

"Really?" she heard him say, as she held the phone out in preparation of hitting the button to break the connection. "I could swear that you're sitting on your couch eating Chinese food."

She stared down at the phone for a moment, and then her eyes flicked over to the window. The drapes were parted, and even against the darkness, she could see the rain pouring against the glass. Slowly unfolding her legs from underneath her, she got to her feet and crept across the room, the cell phone still held in her hand. Even though she was expecting it, she still jumped back in surprise as his head suddenly popped into view as he leaned over to peer back at her through the window. He was holding his cell phone to his ear.

"It's kind of wet out here," he informed her, his voice coming through the phone as she read his lips through the glass.

She took another step forward and then smiled at him.

"Good!" she said, reaching over to click off the phone as she simultaneously snapped the curtains shut.

Outside, House pursed his lips and stood still for a moment, before slowly lowering the phone and switching it off. He was still trying to jam the phone into his pocket when he heard the sound of the deadbolt sliding open. A beam of light shot out as the door opened, illuminating his figure.

He turned and peered at her with his eyebrows raised.

"Amazing how a brilliant guy like you doesn't have the sense to come in out of the rain," she said, reluctantly pushing the door all the way open.

"You moved the key you used to keep under that planter," he grumbled, making his way towards her.

"Yeah, and I see you checked them all out," she noted, looking down and seeing that all the potted plants near the doorway had been shuffled to different places. "You didn't want to pick the lock?" she asked.

"Didn't want to show off," he said, stepping across the threshold.

"Oh, my god, you are soaking wet," she said, as he stepped into the bright light of the foyer.

She leaned over and peered out into her driveway.

"You drove your motorcycle on a night like this?" she shrieked.

Looking like a naughty boy who has just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he nodded his head.

"I didn't hear you drive up," she said, looking puzzled. "Even with the microwave going-"

"I walked it the last block," he admitted, as he nudged the door closed behind him, "to make sure you wouldn't hear me."

She sighed and looked down at his feet. Although his entire body was wet, his jeans were absolutely drenched below the knee, with water dripping off of his shoes.

"Stay there!" she ordered. "And do _not_ stepon my carpeting," she said, pointing at him to remain on the small rectangle of tile by the door. I'm going to go get some towels."

She headed towards her bedroom. "Take off your socks and shoes!" she called, disappearing into her room.

"The jeans are pretty wet too," he informed her, hopefully.

Her head briefly reappeared in the doorway. "Don't press your luck!" she snapped.

He waited until she was gone from view before allowing himself a small, sly smile. "Didn't think I'd get this far," he murmured to himself.

He turned and looked at the door, momentarily lifting his hand to the deadbolt but letting it fall without locking it again, apparently deciding that it would also be pressing his luck to attempt to lock the door just yet.

He was finishing removing his right sock when she strode down the hallway, carrying two towels in her arms.

"It's a little hard to balance on the bad leg," he mumbled, apologetically, as he tossed the footwear to the floor.

She nodded, understanding that, even with the cane, he didn't have enough strength to stand on his right leg while attempting to remove the shoe and sock from his left foot.

"Fine," she murmured, throwing the towels on the floor. She bent down to untie his shoe and allowed him to lean gently down on her shoulder as she peeled off the shoe and sock.

But the tenderness in that gesture was immediately negated as she rose, picked up the towels, and threw them forcefully against his chest, almost causing him to lose his grip on his cane as he hurriedly caught them.

"Dry off before you come in," she warned, walking down the hallway and turning into the living room.

By the time he came limping into the room, she was again curled up in a corner of the couch, this time munching on the end of a spring roll as she watched him approach. He tossed one of the towels into a chair across from the couch, to protect the fabric from his wet jeans, sat down, and then folded the other on top of his lap.

He leaned over, reaching down to retrieve the last remaining wonton from the carton. Scowling, Cuddy also bent down and slapped his fingers, grabbing the carton as he hastily pulled his hand away.

"I didn't say you could eat," she hissed, as she placed the carton on the end table next to the couch.

"Well, I know you're eating for two now," he said, making a face, "but I think there's enough there for three." He pointed at the remaining cartons.

"It depends who the third person is," she said, picking up the wonton and tossing it into her mouth.

She swallowed it down and then paused and went to pick up a packet of mustard. Tearing it open and squeezing the contents out onto the plate, she sat back and dipped the spring roll into the mustard before taking another bite.

"If you're just going to sit there and watch me eat, you could have stayed outside," she said, reaching over to pick up her tea.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

"I can't seem to find a pregnancy test or HCG result for you," he said finally, folding his hands in front of him. "At the hospital or at the Trenton Fertility Clinic."

She laughed, almost choking on her tea for a moment. "House," she said, putting down her cup and smiling over at him, "with the way you snoop around, do you really think I am stupid enough to have the test done under my own name, or to have it performed at any place where you could find it?"

She leaned back against the couch. "I have a friend who works in a clinic a couple blocks away from the hospital," she informed him. "I had the tests done there, under a false name."

Getting to her feet, she paused for a moment and then frowned. Picking up the tray from the coffee table, she placed it on the opposite side of the couch, out of his reach, before leaving the room.

She was gone for less than a minute, returning with her handbag held over her arm. Sitting back down on the couch, she snapped the purse open and retrieved a handful of folded papers. She handed the pages over to him and then looked down at the tray. Glaring back at House, she saw that there was an empty wax paper bag sitting on the towel beside him.

"You ate the other spring roll!" she exclaimed, looking thoroughly disgusted.

"I'm hungry!" he said, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back to unfold the papers.

"I don't care!" she retorted. Shaking her head, she leaned over to pick up her chopsticks. Opening up two of the other cartons, she proceeded to put a generous helping of rice and the chicken entree onto the plate and then sat back and took a few bites as he read over the reports.

She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye, and had seen his smile as he read the name of 'Tripper, Candace S.' at the top of the report.

"Looks good," he said, setting the papers on the table beside him.

"The results or the food?" she asked, peering at him over the plate.

"Both," he said, sitting back and eyeing the open cartons hungrily.

"Here," she said, reaching down and tossing something over to him. "Have a fortune cookie."

He caught it with one hand and immediately moved to tear open the wrapper.

"Just don't believe it if your fortune says you're going to get lucky tonight," she informed him.

He broke the cookie open and popped a portion into his mouth as he turned over the small piece of paper. "It says: 'Flattery will always smooth the way for your journey'." He put the rest of the cookie into his mouth and then looked at her with a hopeful smile on his face as he batted his eyes.

She smiled sweetly back at him, but shook her head firmly.

He took his time crunching the cookie and swallowing it down before speaking again.

"Can I explain it to you now?" he said, finally, tossing the fortune onto the table beside the reports.

"I don't know," she said, frowning down at a piece of chicken she was holding in the chopsticks before bringing it up to her mouth. "Can you?" she asked, over the mouthful of food.

"I've been researching TGA," he said, leaning forward on his elbows again.

"Hmm," she said, reaching over and putting a pancake down on her plate, "this should be good," she murmured, as she spread the Moo Shu vegetables over it.

"The food or the explanation?" he asked.

"I'm betting both," she replied, as she folded the pancake over.

"The vast majority of people who have suffered a TGA episode never have a second attack," he said.

"Agreed," she said, nodding her head and taking a bite.

"However, in a very small minority of patients, it begins to happen repeatedly, and they can end up with very severe, permanent brain damage."

"Okay," she said, swallowing.

"You have a very high stress job."

"With you so far," she said, taking another bite.

"You are very healthy, but a post-40 pregnancy can be extremely stressful-on both your body and your mind."

"Oh, come off it, House, that's ridiculous!" she exclaimed, putting her plate down. "Do you seriously expect me to think that you selflessly had yourself 'snipped' to save me from the agony of another TGA attack because I just might be susceptible to one if I got pregnant?" she asked.

"Well-"

"Hey, you know what? If you wanted to do something to reduce my stress level, quit!" she urged. "Not having you as an employee would make my job-and my life-a lot less difficult."

He frowned and looked down at the floor.

"Now, what were the trigger factors for TGA?" she asked, thoughtfully pressing a finger to her lips. "Let's see: cold water, exercise, oh, what was the third one again? Oh, that's right," she said, suddenly brightening and getting to her feet. "Humping!" she said, thrusting her hips into the air.

"Uh, you might want to be a little careful," he urged, wrinkling his forehead and putting out his hand. "Don't want to jar anything loose in there," he said, leaning back in his chair as she stopped and smiled at him.

"But, since you had the vasectomy, you were still planning on humping me, right House?" she asked, sounding puzzled. "Oh, I guess for some reason you figured I could handle the sex, but not getting knocked up?"

She shrugged and sat back down, picking up the plate again. "I think there are more than a few holes in that argument."

"It doesn't really matter does it?" he asked, frowning as he massaged his neck. "Now that you're already pregnant, we are just going to have to deal with it," he said, reaching out to pick up the lab reports again.

"_We_ are going to have to deal with it, House?" she asked, taking another bite.

"Well, I can't trust you to be reasonable about this, can I?" he snarled, frowning down at the pages. "Remember how you were last year when you were treating Ella?"

"I don't remember treating an Ella last year," she said, furrowing her brow.

"The forty-something pregnant photographer?"

"Her name was Emma," she corrected.

"And you knew who I meant," he snapped, reaching over and picking up the carton of Kung Pao chicken. Using his fingers, he reached in and pulled out a piece of chicken. "You did everything wrong, getting emotionally involved and making bad decisions, all because you wanted her to keep the fetus," he said, before tossing the meat into his mouth.

"Yes, I wanted her to have the _baby,_" she said. "Which she did."

"Against the odds," he argued. "If you couldn't make a rational decision in that case, you sure as hell aren't going to be able to handle any complications with your own pregnancy." He frowned and began to dig around in the carton with his fingers.

"Oh, for god's sake!" she barked, getting to her feet. "You want a fork or a pair of chopsticks?" she asked, in a resigned tone.

"Chopsticks," he said, licking his fingers. "I'll just eat it out of the carton, you don't have to bring a plate," he told her, graciously, as she walked out of the room.

He waited until he heard her pull out a drawer in the kitchen.

"A beer would be nice, though," he called out.

He smiled as he heard the drawer slamming shut. But, to his surprise, she was carrying an open bottle of beer in one hand when she returned to the room with the chopsticks.

He jumped back slightly as she thrust the chopsticks towards his face. He took them from her and then watched as she leaned over to pull out a drawer and get out a coaster.

Putting the coaster on the table, she sat the beer bottle down on top of it and returned to the couch.

He had the lab reports spread out over his lap, and he frowned as he began to use the chopsticks to feed himself as he read through them again.

"The levels look really good," he said, stabbing the chopsticks down into the carton so that he could reach out and take a swig from the beer bottle. "Doubling nicely."

"Yep," she said, finishing up her pancake and wiping her hands and mouth with a paper napkin before tossing it into one of the empty cartons.

"But, this early in the pregnancy, even an ectopic pregnancy might be giving you numbers like this," he said, setting the bottle back down. "Besides the added risk of a multiple births with Clomid. Have you had an ultrasound yet?"

She laughed and moved to wrap her robe more tightly around herself. "I didn't even dare to do the pregnancy test until last week," she reminded him.

"Well," he said, carefully putting the papers back into a stack with one hand as he continued to hold the carton in the other, "Wang is scheduled to cover clinic tomorrow. Since he filled in for me today, I could offer to take his shift tomorrow."

She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

"You could stop in to the clinic for a couple minutes and I could do one for you," he said, shrugging his shoulders as he set the papers on the table. "I assume you could be discreet about it," he said, cocking his head to the side.

She stared down at her hands for several seconds.

"I'll think about it," she finally said, lifting her head to look back at him.

He shrugged and picked up the beer bottle, taking several swallows this time.

"I also assume you are going to opt for chorionic villus sampling rather than amniocentesis?" he said, tilting the bottle back and forth in his hand as he studied it.

"Who says I'm going to have either?" she challenged.

He rolled his eyes and placed the bottle back on the table. "C'mon, Cuddy, even if you would absolutely refuse to terminate, you'd want to get a heads-up on any problems, wouldn't you?"

She leaned her head back against the couch, continuing to watch him without saying a word as he set the carton down on the coffee table.

"You're Rh-positive, and you've been taking folic acid, so there's no reason to wait longer to have an amniocentesis done instead." He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to pull out a calendar. "We should be scheduling a CVS for five to seven weeks from now," he said, frowning as he consulted the calendar. "I also looked up miscarriage rates for the procedure in the tri-state area. There are a couple of women and a guy whose rates are a lot lower than average," he said, unfolding a piece of paper from the back of the calendar. She could see that he had names, addresses and phone numbers written down on the page.

"Grrr," she murmured, suddenly, clenching her hands into angry fists as she slowly rose from the couch.

"You okay?" he said, looking at her uncertainly as the piece of paper dangled from his fingertips.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmm," she moaned, wordlessly, as she began to pace around the room with her hands on her hips. He watched as she shook her head and walked back and forth across the room, uncertain if she had answered him with a yes or a no.

"Damn you, House," she finally said, stopping in front of him. "Did you have to do that?" she asked, pointing down at the paper.

"I'm…only trying to help," he said, looking up at her with concern.

She sighed loudly. "You deserve to be suffering for a much longer time than this," she said, shaking her head again.

"I have eight more months of this to look forward to, don't I?" he asked, doubtfully.

"Oh, I wish," she muttered, using both hands to brush her hair back from her face.

With a small cry of disgust, she knelt down in front of his chair. She took the paper from his hand and studied it for a moment, and then tore it in half and tossed it on the floor.

"I'm not pregnant, House," she said, looking up at him.

She watched as a look of doubt, relief, and wariness crossed his face in rapid succession.

"Did you think you were the only one capable of making up false lab reports?" she asked, leaning over to prop her arms on either side of his legs.

"What do you mean," he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Hey, I know," she said, reaching out to pick up the towel that was still across his lap, and tossing it on the floor. "Why don't you go ahead and show me your surgical scars?' she asked, pointing at his crotch as she smiled up at him.

"They're gone now," he said, looking suddenly uneasy. "Nothing to see," he protested, leaning back slightly.

"Yeah, I guess they do disappear pretty quickly, don't they?" she said, wrinkling her brow. "Especially those invisible ones from those imaginary procedures."

He regarded her silently for several moments. "You sound very sure of yourself," he said, finally, a hint of grudging admiration in his voice as he leaned back towards her.

"You didn't have a vasectomy," she stated, calmly.

"How do you _know_?" he challenged.

"Because Wilson and I were stupid enough to be concerned about you when you called off for those three days," she told him, crossing her arms. "Luckily, Amber was able to hang around your place and watch what you were doing."

"Just because she didn't see me go to the doctor's office-"

"Oh, that's right, she didn't follow you whenever you left your apartment," she said, nodding her head. "But she did tell us that you seemed to be doing an awful lot of driving around that week," she added, as her smile widened.

"So?' said House, still sounding unconvinced.

"Of course, I was a little suspicious to begin with. The way you have pissed off every other doctor in this state, I really doubted that you would let anyone get within a mile of your genitals with a scalpel in his or her hand," said Cuddy, shaking her head. "But, if you had a vasectomy, you would have been lying at home with your sack packed in ice and a dozen pillows underneath it," she laughed. "Not _bouncing around on your freaking motorcycle_."

"Damn!" said House, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. He sat back in his chair and screwed up his eyes in concentration. "You evil, _cunn_ing woman, you _knew_," he said slowly, opening his eyes and looking down at her, "from the moment I said I had it done on those days-"

"That you were _**ly**__-ing_!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes wide as she emphasized the word.

"You thought up a pretty quick lie in return!" he retorted.

"Oh, I was so pissed at you," she said, reaching out to slap him hard on the knee.

"Ouch!"

She rose to her feet.

"I mean, it was hurtful enough to think that you would have had it done. But it was even worse to know that you hadn't, and that you were just saying you had to screw with my mind."

"Why would I do that?"

"Oh, god, House! I have known you for how many years now?" she asked, looking up at the ceiling. "I can't even begin to imagine all the fine details in this grand, Machiavellian scheme you were plotting. But at least I knew enough from the way you were behaving to be extra suspicious."

She bent down to clear a space on the coffee table so that she could sit down directly in front of him.

"I also talked to Stacy," she said.

"And?"

"And she confirmed my suspicions that there was no way you were holding me at arm's length for the entire month without planning to reel me in later," she said. "She, Wilson, and I all knew you were up to something, we just couldn't quite figure out what," she admitted.

She paused and propped her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin in her hands. "We were really enjoying ourselves before my attack, weren't we?" she asked, with a wide grin on her face.

"Absolutely," he assured her, looking perplexed at her sudden change in mood.

"I mean the sex was actually really good-"

"Why do you always sound so surprised when you say that?" he asked, sounding clearly annoyed.

"Because I know it bugs you," she replied, happily. "But the companionship outside of bed was awfully nice too, wasn't it?" she asked, quietly.

He smiled slightly, but did not reply.

"Of course, the fact that we were sneaking around, 'doing it on the sly' made it a little more fun for both of us, didn't it?"

"Oh, definitely," he replied, his smile broadening into a naughty grin.

"Then I had my attack," she said, dropping her gaze from his face as she lowered her hands to her knees. "And, all of a sudden, you were loudly proclaiming to everyone, that the _only _reason I was sleeping with you was because I wanted to get pregnant. Why was that, House?" she asked, looking back up at him. "Were you afraid that it was true? Or did you just feel you had to say it before someone else did?

"Are you saying getting pregnant isn't important to you?" he challenged.

"Not at all," she said, shaking her head. "But, you have purposefully distanced yourself from me ever since then. You came to my hospital room, but you didn't kiss me, you didn't even _touch _me. Then you did the same thing to me in the clinic that day."

"You think I did that on purpose?" he asked.

"You're damn right, I do," she said. "Especially because you didn't come near me for the rest of the week. I mean, you always find _some_ reason to stop in my office, whether it's to discuss a case or to complain about your parking space, or to bitch about the price of coffee in the cafeteria. At the very least, I expected you to be the one coming in to crow to me that Foreman had nearly let a patient expire in the hallway. But, no. I finally had to come to you, under the pretense of having to break up the fight between you and Foreman."

"You didn't care that we were fighting?"

"Well, it had definitely gotten out of hand, but I could have called Foreman into my office instead of going over to yours," she said.

"But then you wouldn't have seen me," he said, reaching over to twirl his cane.

"Exactly." She paused for a moment. "You must have been thrilled that I was going to be out of town for a week, that worked right into your plan to make sure I'd be lonesome for your company, didn't it?"

"You really think I had this 'grand plan'?" he said, tossing the cane aside.

"Definitely. Why else would you have been in my office my first day back at work, so eager to find out whether or not I had my period while I was in Atlanta? You were so damn happy to find out I had that you were practically skipping on your way out of my office."

"I don't exactly skip these days," he said, furrowing his brow.

"Believe me, given your handicap, you were doing an amazing approximation. So I knew that, whatever you were planning, it depended on my _not _being pregnant yet. Which is why, by the way, it was the first lie to come to my mind after I figured out you were lying to me this morning."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Then, through this week of hell, you still didn't come into my office or even call me once," she said, opening her eyes and shaking her head. "Everyone else on your team was coming to me. Even Cameron was consulting with me. But you were bound and determined to stay in your own little cave, making me come to you. And when I did come to you this morning, you made sure I was more than ready to jump back into bed with you before you decided to inform me that, 'Oops, might be a slight problem if the only reason you want to have sex with me is because you want to get pregnant'."

"Didn't I know that would make you furious?"

"Oh, of course you did. You also know that the times I am hottest for you is right after you've infuriated me," she said, leaning forward.

He bent his head again, but she had seen a definite gleam in his eyes before he had dropped his gaze to the floor.

"And, as childish as you can be, you can be amazingly patient at times."

"Really?" he said, furrowing his brow as he raised his eyes back to her face.

"You went after Stacy after diagnosing Mark. First," she said, starting to tick the examples off on her fingers, "you went through his group therapy file to find out what problems they were having, then you started hanging around her house, doing the chores that she complained Mark was neglecting, then you stepped in to catch a rat for her since the exterminator had conveniently been told not to come. Shall I go on?" she asked, pausing to catch her breath.

"No," he said, shaking his head and leaning back in the chair.

"Unluckily for you, _she _figured it out right away. Otherwise, you were prepared to hang around for months waiting for the moment when she would be vulnerable enough to turn to you."

"Something like that," he admitted, pulling at his ear.

"As for me…" She shrugged her shoulders. "I mean, we finally got back together years after a disastrous 'one night stand'. Now that the sex was actually terrific, I guess you figured all you would have to do is wait until some night when I was lonely enough, or reckless enough, or inebriated enough to turn to you for sex again. I guess you didn't really care why I would come back to you, just as long as it was not for 'strictly procreative' reasons. Is there another possibility I'm missing?"

"You could have gone back to the sperm bank and gotten pregnant that way," he said.

"How would that help you?" she asked, looking completely perplexed.

"Some studies have shown that women, particularly women over forty who are pregnant for the first time, can get _tremendously horny_ during their second trimester," he informed her.

She stared at him.

"And I would be hanging around, offering medical advice, a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on-"

"A bed to jump into?" she asked.

He shrugged and smiled. "You _do _remember how nicely my quo fits into your quid?"

"You're incorrigible," she said, breaking into a smile.

"I know," he said, nodding his head again.

"And you're a jerk," she said, leaning towards him.

"I know," he repeated.

"And I've missed you," she said, bending down closer to him.

"I-"

But before he could get to the next word, her lips were on top of his. It took only a moment before he responded, spreading his legs apart so that he could pull her closer to him as they continued to kiss and embrace. She opened her lips and he flicked his tongue very gently into her mouth, savoring her sweet, tangy taste. They kissed for over a minute before he finally pulled back slightly, loosening his grip but not completely relinquishing his hold. They looked at each other wordlessly, and then he bent down to kiss her, very softly, on the nose.

"Hmm," he said.

She followed his gaze downward and smiled as he stared down the front of her robe.

"Looks like the twins have missed me, too," he said, smiling triumphantly.

"Yeah," she admitted, smiling up at him.

"So, what do we do now?" he asked.

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. "I have a compromise for you," she began, opening her eyes. "I know it's not your style," she added, as he grimaced at the word, "but hear me out."

"I haven't been taking the Clomid this month," she said.

He looked at her quizzically.

"I've already been on it nearly five months without results, and we both know there wasn't much point continuing on with it after another month or two anyway," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Besides, I'm tired of how it makes me feel, and I'm _really_ tired of having sex based on my ovulation schedule," she said, shaking her head.

"So, how about we start having sex and being together whenever we both feel like it instead?" she asked, propping her chin on his left knee. "Although I would also ask that we not use contraception."

"Just let things happen?" he asked.

"Again, not your style, but yeah," she said, reaching up to rub her hand across his cheek.

"You still want a baby?" he said, looking her in the eyes.

"It would be nice," she admitted, smiling. "But, it's not the major priority in my life like it was two years ago. I've had to deal with a lot of disappointments since then and each month I've had to get a little closer to accepting the fact that it's probably not going to happen."

"But, if it does-" he began.

"Then we'll deal with it then," she said. "Or, _I'll_ deal with it, if you prefer."

"Cuddy." He paused and she waited patiently, knowing he was finding it very difficult to gather the courage to say what he needed to tell her. "I am an _amazingly_ fertile man," he finally whispered, smiling down at her.

"So, I've heard," she replied, laughing softly.

"But, I don't know if I can be a 'dad', even to your child," he admitted, slowly.

There was no denying either the pain or the honesty in his eyes as he said it.

"I know," she said. She smiled ruefully. "Do you have any idea how relieved you looked when you figured out I was telling the truth about not being pregnant?"

He nodded his head, blowing a small whistle through his lips as he did so.

"But, you were still here, offering to help me," she said, nodding at the torn pieces of paper on the floor.

"Which doesn't mean that I'm-"

"I'm not asking you to marry me, House," she said, reaching out to take his hands as she interrupted him. "I'm certainly not asking for forever, or even putting a timeline on this at all. But, for right now, I want _more _than what we've had the past few months, and I'm hoping you do, too. Can we both finally be honest enough to admit that?" she asked.

He looked at their hands for a moment and then raised his face to hers and nodded.

"You don't have to look so scared," she teased. "Look at it this way: we've been classmates, a 'one-night-stand', a doctor and her patient, and a boss and her infuriatingly irresponsible employee," she said, smiling. "And through all that we have also, amazingly, remained friends as well." She shrugged. "I think that our friendship might even be able to withstand this, too."

"So," he said, tapping his foot impatiently. "Wanna go spawn?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

She laughed, but shook her head. "No," she said, considering the question carefully. "House and Cuddy were spawning. I think it's time that Greg and Lisa went into her bedroom and made love," she suggested.

He looked down at her and frowned. "I haven't called you 'Lisa' since the day after we met," he protested.

"Maybe it's time we got reacquainted," she said, getting to her feet. "Need some help getting up?" she asked.

He smiled up at her roguishly. "To which part of my body are you referring?"

"Your leg," she said, smiling down at him. "Obviously the Cialis has already kicked in and is doing wonders for the other part of you," she observed dryly, looking down at the front of his jeans. "You did take it, right?"

He nodded.

"Wasn't that taking a chance?"

He shrugged. "You do tend to be pretty horny right after I've made you angry. And I figured you were _really _pissed off at me today."

"By the way," he asked, leaning on his cane as he rose to his feet, "just how long did you intend to keep pretending you were pregnant? I mean, was this going to involve body padding eventually?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, I hadn't thought that far ahead, actually. But I was pretty sure it would be fun to watch you go crazy for a while," she admitted, with a smile. "But, with your determination, I knew it was going to be tricky. I figured the next thing I knew you'd be slipping me a sedative in my coffee so you could strap me down and perform the ultrasound yourself."

"Oh, how'd you guess? That's my second-favorite bondage fantasy for us."

He grinned and moved to embrace her again. They kissed for a moment and then she pushed him away, playfully.

"Go lock the door," she ordered, pulling away. "I'm going to slip into something a little more enticing."

"Need this?" he asked, reaching into his pocket and handing her something.

She couldn't help but start laughing as she took the rubber band and stretched it out. "Okay, maybe my 'twins' aren't identical, but they aren't as mismatched as this!" she protested, seeing that there was now only one Vicodin attached to the band.

"Medical emergency," he assured her.

"Uh-huh," she said. She waited until he had started for the door to shoot the rubber band onto his retreating form.

"It's not nice to take advantage of cripples!" he yelled, not turning around.

"Take your time," she said, as she headed towards the bedroom. "Turn out all the lights while you're at it."

"Yes, mistress," he croaked, exaggerating his limp as he walked towards the hallway.

He actually did take his time locking the door and then returning to the living room to shut off the lights. He then headed to the kitchen and turned off all the lights in that room. As he got back to the hallway, he heard the door to her bedroom open.

"Oh," he said, stopping shortly and drawing in his breath.

The flannel robe was gone and in its place was a sheer and lacy white negligee that clung to every beautiful curve of her body. The light shining from behind her cast a white glow around her outline, but when he squinted he could just make out the dark circles of her nipples underneath the thin fabric.

"Hi," she said, smiling as he began walking towards her. "I'm Lisa," she said, holding out her hand. "You must be Greg."

He grinned and put out his hand to shake hers.

"I was hoping we'd meet again," she said, looking up at him.

His smile widened as he let her pull him into the bedroom.


	8. All of Me

**Chapter 08: All of Me**

**Content has been removed to comply with policy.**


	9. Wee Small Hours of the Morning Reprise

Chapter 08: In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning (Reprise)

**Chapter 09: In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning (Reprise)**

This time, as she awoke in the middle of the night, it took only a moment for her to realize what had disturbed her sleep. The thunderstorms had increased in intensity over the past few hours, and there was a gusty wind blowing noisily against the house in addition to the crashing of thunder and the rapid flashes of lightning. She propped herself up on her elbow to check the clock, and then put her other arm out behind her.

Although the sheet felt warm, her fingertips did not encounter a solid shape as she searched behind her. Sighing softly, she turned and confirmed that the other side of the bed was indeed empty.

She lay back and stared up at the ceiling, watching the quick succession of light and shadow flicker across the room as the lightning continued. Although he hadn't directly answered her with a yes when she asked him if he would be staying for the night, the fact that he hadn't said no had led her to hope that he would.

Turning back onto her left side, she rose up slightly to plump her pillow, and then, as the lightning flashed again, she saw that his clothes were still lying where she had tossed them on the floor. With a grin, she propped herself up and looked over at the bathroom. Although the door was open, the next bolt of lightning confirmed that he was not in that room either.

She cocked her head to the side and was finally able to detect, between the rumbles of thunder, some indistinct sounds coming from the direction of the kitchen. Smiling, she threw off the covers and rose out of the bed. Pausing to throw on a silky, light-blue robe, she padded on out into the hallway.

There was a soft glow coming from the kitchen threshold, and she entered the room and grinned. House was bending down, and there was something quite comical about the sight of his bare buttocks bobbing up in the air as he searched through her refrigerator.

"Something I can help you find?" she asked, switching on the under-cupboard lights.

He apparently had heard her coming, because he did not appear startled by either her voice or the sudden increase in light.

"You know," he said, standing up and reaching out to pick up a carton of orange juice as he turned, "that if you expect me to be spending some of my nights over here, you're going to have to invest in better junk food." He opened up the carton and raised it to his lips, taking in a big swallow. "Or _some_ junk food," he said, closing the carton and returning it to the shelf.

"And you're going to have to learn to use a glass when you do that," she said, leaning back against the counter.

"After what we've been doing this evening, you're concerned about getting my oral flora on your disposable container?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

He closed the refrigerator and moved over to the pantry, beginning to search through the shelves there.

"There were some carrots and grapes in the fridge," she said. "Isn't that good enough for my little jackrabbit?" she teased.

"I believe the word _stallion_ is much more appropriate, don't you?" he snorted, frowning down at a box he was holding in his hand before tossing it back on the shelf.

"Well, there were definitely some alfalfa sprouts in there too," she said. "All right, from now on I'll be leaving a plate of raw meat out in case I get a visit from my _tiger_," she promised.

She walked over to stand beside him. "There's a bag of chips and some M&Ms hidden behind the cereal boxes, on the top shelf," she informed him.

He reached up to move a granola box out of the way, and then paused and looked back at her. "You _hid_e them from yourself?" he asked, squinting one eye as he turned to look at her.

She shrugged. "Not exactly. But, that way, they're not in plain view every time I open the door and I have to work a bit to get to them."

He pulled down the bag of candy, ripped it open and poured out a handful into his palm. "How many calories do you think you work off by having to pick up a box?" he asked, after gobbling them down.

"None," she said, widening her eyes. "But it gives me a few more seconds to decide if I really want it before I reach out and grab for it."

"No wonder you're so desperate to get laid. Grab first, think later," he advised.

"Hey, any more smart comments, and the next time I hide them, I won't tell you where they are," she threatened, reaching out to grab the bag away from him.

He quickly moved it out of her reach, and poured the remaining candy into his palm.

"Hey, piggy, give me some!" she protested, trying to reach around him.

Using his advantage in height, he raised his hand over his head to keep it out of her grasp. "I don't know," he said, smiling down at her. "Are you _sure_ you want some? Don't make a hasty decision, now."

"Yes, I'm sure," she hissed. "And just remember that you're naked and in the middle of a room that contains many sharp implements."

He immediately lowered his arm, but kept his hand pulled close to his chest, and looked down into his palm. "What colors do you like?" he asked, grudgingly.

She tossed her head. "They all taste the same," she said.

"Yeah," he snorted, "that's what they say about women too."

"Spare me the details," she said, as she reached over and picked a few candies out of his hand. "You're not exactly the _sweetest_ guy I ever met, either."

She ate hers one at a time as he continued to swallow mouthfuls of them, so they finished eating at roughly the same time.

"Now that you've satisfied _that_ appetite," she said, striding back towards the door, "want to go satisfy another one of your hungers?"

She paused by the door, with her hand on the light switch. He crumpled up the empty candy wrapper and tossed it onto the counter before bending over to pick up his cane.

"The garbage is right there-" she began, sounding frustrated. Then she broke off and started to giggle.

House paused in mid-step and peered over at her.

"I know this will come as a shock to you, but to most men, laughter when you are looking at their naked bodies is _not _an aphrodisiac," he informed her.

"I'm sorry," she sputtered, trying to stop and catch her breath. "But, I've just never seen you walk naked with your cane before. And the cane and your-"

She stopped again to laugh. "They just are kind of swinging together in rhythm," she finally managed to blurt out, moving her hands back and forth to demonstrate.

His frown deepened as he continued to walk towards her. Raising his cane in the air, he deftly managed to undo the tie around her waist. He then very slowly moved both halves of her robe to the side, exposing her breasts.

"Is that the only similarity you can see between them?" he asked, tapping the end of his cane very gently against her collarbone.

"Oh, no," she breathed, smiling as she reached up and, circling her fingers around the smooth surface, slowly ran her hand up and down the cane. "There is a _remarkable_ resemblance between the two right now," she assured him, as she looked down.

"Hey, you know what?" she added, suddenly releasing her grip, and moving to flip off the light switch. "I think I have some edible body paints in my bedroom." She turned and began moving down the hallway towards the bedroom, shrugging out of her robe as she walked. "If you hurry, I'll bet we'll even have time to paint some flames on _that_ one," she said, turning back and pointing at him. "That way they'll be perfectly matched."

He smiled and began to hurry after her. But House, being House, could of course not let her have the final word.

"Why don't I call Home Depot?" he suggested, as he came through the bedroom doorway. "Have them send over a couple gallons of shellac? We might as well do your ass while we're at it."

**THE END**

Ending notes:

Thanks to all who took the time to leave reviews and comments, they were all appreciated. I especially want to thank those who made me feel so welcome as I entered into this new (for me) category of fanfiction. 'Huddy shippers' seem to be an exceptionally friendly and forgiving bunch!

My apologies to those who were waiting for a Housian medical twist. Cuddy's TGA _was_ TGA, and nothing (other than a combination of strenuous sex and stress) was probably the cause of it. Her illness was never important in itself to me, it was the springboard for a way to make them have to stop and reevaluate what each of them was getting (and not getting) out of the relationship. If it was strange for Cuddy to have House explain why they were sleeping together, her initial response that the situation seemed unbelievably weird was the impetus for him wondering if there was any way their affair might turn into more than what they had initially agreed on.

So, it only took seven chapters for them to finally admit that they actually wanted to have sex with each other, not just make a baby for Cuddy and help House pay off his Visa balance. Maybe in about ten more chapters, I'll finally get these two mule-headed people to admit they might even like each other! There's an outside chance that in about thirty chapters I might even get them to admit to a deeper affection.

I mentioned to my editor that the sex scene turned out a lot differently than what I had originally imagined for them. Talk about stubborn-those two absolutely refused to just shut up and have sex. But then I realized, it's their verbal sparring that I love most about their relationship. Their banter, their joking, their conversations have always been the most exquisite form of foreplay for them anyway, there's no way they'd suddenly abandon that just because they were moving on to the main course.

Besides being my first story in this fandom, this piece was also a new experience for me in that this was actually the first time where I had completed writing the story (well, except for the gratuitous sex scene and some minor polishing of details), before beginning to post. I felt an urgency about making sure that this would be up and posted before the last four episodes of Season Four would air and make the whole storyline completely implausible, and vowed not to start something that I couldn't finish in time to accomplish this goal. In the past, I have sometimes found myself 'painted into a corner' when I wanted to introduce a storyline or plot twist, but found that what I wanted to write was incompatible with what was already posted. I also plead guilty to writing stories that have started to drag on and on, having lost their original intent or purpose and have to admit that several of my tales have an abrupt change in tone mid-way through the story. The other nice thing about writing this way was that it allowed me to release at least two chapters a week, with the hope that it would keep the story fresh in the minds of the readers without giving them too many long chapters to absorb at once.

As an avid reader of fanfiction, I must also confess that I myself have invested too much time reading some glorious chapters of intensely interesting stories only to find that the author abruptly stops, having lost the time, will or inspiration to finish what they've begun. So, if it is a while before you see me posting another story, at least know that I promise you that any story I do start to post will be completed.

I already have some more ideas for House/Cuddy, a few are quite dark, one is only slightly Huddy-centric and the other is a bit of smuffiness (combined smut and fluffiness). I also confess that they are likely to get even more contrived than this story. But, gosh, what are we Huddy shippers to do? If Davie Shore and Katie Jacobs don't hurry up and get those two into bed, we've just got to do it ourselves, anyway we can!

Here's hoping that Season Five doesn't get interrupted by an actors' strike and that we get the promised House/Cuddy storyline we've been promised.

Veresna


End file.
